The Woman Who Counted
by TheHeartOfTheDetective
Summary: Sherlolly After the fall, Sherlock Holmes stays with Molly Hooper while he dismantles Moriarty's network. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, but maybe Sherlock has some feelings for Molly that he's never had before.
1. Chapter 1

_**I have 25 chapters of this written, which are currently published on Wattpad. I don't know if I will put them all up on this site, but I will try it out. If you lot enjoy it as much as the people on Wattpad, I will definitely continue.**_

_**Not all of it is Molly's POV (I will say when the POV changes). Most of the chapters are third person, I believe. I hope you don't get confused by it, although POV switched will be labeled.**_

_**I hope you all enjoy this story and I hope to post more chapters! c: **_

_**–OH**_

* * *

I can't tell you what I expect of Sherlock Holmes. I can tell you what I know. He is a consulting detective, only one in the world. He doesn't seem to feel any emotion, as you or I would. He's smart, observant, he could tell you every detail of the day you've had with just one look at you, he's boffin, sexy, he's… a machine.

I can say that he surprises me. Even after all these years. Everything is a surprise. You can't expect anything from him; nothing should be expected from him. There's always something new with Sherlock Holmes. Always. Except, when you can't see him. When he thinks no one can see him, you can always expect one thing.

I should know, my dad was like that. Looking sad when he thought nobody could see him, which no one did, except me. I don't count; I've never counted. Sherlock shows this same look, quite often. When everyone is busy and his head is down. I told him that I could see it, once when John, wasn't paying attention.

Sherlock was using the microscope, working on a case. I glanced up at him, and I saw it, the sadness on his face. I just stared, for a moment. Deciding, if I should say something. Should I have said something? Maybe I shouldn't have.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead. No, sorry–" I say. I should just shut up now.

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area." He responds, not bothering to look up from the microscope.

"When he was dying, he was always cheerful, he was lovely." I continue, not listening to him. "Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly."

"You look sad. When you think he can't see you."

He looks up; the sadness is taken over with surprise. He turns his head, and looks at me.

"Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means–looking sad when you think no one can see you."

"You can see me." He says.

"I don't count." I pause. "What I'm trying to say is, if there's anything I can do–anything you need, anything at all–you can have me. No, I just mean. I mean, if there's anything you need, it's fine." I decide to stop once I can feel myself blushing.

"What could I need from you?"

"Nothing. I don't know. You could probably say thank you, actually."

He pauses. "Thank you."

As he returns to his work, I walk towards the door, pause and turn toward him. "I'm just going to go and get some crisps. Do you want anything? It's okay. I know you don't." I say. He doesn't need anything. He never does.

He looks up. "Well actually, maybe I–"

"I know you don't."

I leave, in a rush, not wanting to embarrass myself anymore then I already have. I walk to the nearest vending machine. I press some random buttons on the machine, not caring about what it gets me. When I pay, some crisps from a brand I've never heard of drop and are waiting for me. After grabbing them, I sit in a plain, blue fabric chair, which is next to the vending machine. When I'm done with them, I throw them in a small trash bin and go back to the morgue.

Sherlock is gone by the time I get back. I go to the counter and pick up a clip bored. A list of names on paper is on there, all with a check next to them except for the last one, Daniela O'Hara. I grab a blank autopsy report and make my way to one of the metal slabs, which holds the body of O'Hara. When I'm done with the autopsy, I fill in the report, put her body in the freezer, wash my hands, and get ready to leave. When I am ready and heading out of the room, I'm startled to hear someone's voice and I gasp, jumpily turning around towards the voice.

"You're wrong, you know." It's Sherlock, and I turn around to see him with his back towards me. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong." I demand as calmly as possible.

"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

He turns to face me, and looks me in the eyes. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything I think I am, would you still help me?"

"What do you need?"

"You."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Don't worry, the chapters **_**do _get better. The first few chapters of this kind of suck because I was new to writing. It's been wuite awhile since then, though, so my writing has improved quite a lot. _**

**_Enjoy. xxx_**

**_–OH_**

* * *

He steps closer to me. And I look up at him. We stay like this, for minutes, looking into each other's eyes. I look at him, trying to figure out what he's thinking. He's almost unreadable; maybe he likes it that way.

"Sherlock, I–I don't understand. What do you need me for?" I ask, breaking the silence.

He doesn't say anything for a while. Instead he looks away, and turns his back. Another few minutes of quiet pass, and then he speaks.

"Someone is after me. He is convincing people I am a fraud; that I'm not who I say I am. I'm pretty sure he's going to kill me, or going to make me kill myself." He sighs. "But I can't die today, Molly. I can't leave John. Lestrade may not believe me now, but he needs me too. And you, I can't leave you either."

"Why would I need you?"

"I don't know. Maybe because your lonely. Maybe because you like me." I blush. "Maybe because, before John, I considered you the closest thing to a friend that I had. You were always there for me. Even after all these years. Even through my-" He pauses." Hardest times. You were the only person kind to me, who'd talk to me, who'd listen to me; the only person who would help me."

"Sherlock, what's wrong? What do you need?"

"What I need, Molly Hooper, is help, your help. I cannot die today, Molly. I need people to believe I am dead. I need your help with my death. Will you help me?"

I think for a moment before I respond to his question.

"Alright."

We get to work immediately. I do the work that will convince the Doctors and witnesses that Sherlock is dead, and Sherlock does the hardest bit. He jumps off the roof.


	3. Chapter 3

_**I may just end up going back and making these early chapters better, depending on feedback. xxx**_

_**–OH**_

* * *

Never before have I seen Sherlock Holmes so peaceful. The plan worked. He jumped and his fall was broken, and he was coated in blood. He definitely looks dead, thanks to his Homeless Network's help. For a few minutes, I forget that this is all a trick. All of this isn't real.

The drug used to stop his heart worked and is still in affect. I can't even see him breathing. A dose that big could have killed him, for all I know, it may be. I grab his hand and put my head on his chest, listening for a heartbeat. I hear nothing, and a tear slips from my eye. As I lift my head off his chest, he slowly starts breathing normally, which is shocking. It should have taken him hours to recover from that big of a dose. With any normal human being, it would have taken hours! Although, this is Sherlock Holmes; I suppose he isn't what you would call a "normal human being".

I expect him to pull his hand away from mine, as I am still holding it, but he just grips it tighter. His eyes slowly open.

"John?" He calls out.

"No, Sherlock, it's Molly. Molly Hooper. Are you feeling all right? Do you remember what happened?" I ask him.

"Yes." He pulls his hand from mine and quickly sits up and looks around the room. "Yes."

Sherlock slid off the slab, stumbling a bit when his feet touched to ground; the medicine is still wearing off then. He staggers over to the sink that sits in the corner of the morgue and washes his face with water from the faucet. He than attempts to get all of the blood off the back of his neck and in his hair but fails at this and turns to look at me.

"Could you help me?" He asks. "I can't get all this blood off my neck and out of my hair."

I nod my head and walk over to him. I wet a paper towel and clean the blood of Sherlock's neck. When I'm done, I lay it next to the counter and wet my hands.

"Put your head under the water." I tell him. He does as I say and I begin rubbing the blood out of his hair, practically massaging his head.

The sink water is turning crimson colored, and Sherlock's hair is returning to its regular dark brown color. I take my hands out of his hair and step back. Sherlock looks up, and runs his hand through his wet hair. He puts his head back over the sink, and squeezes his hair between his hands. Water falls through his fingers and into the sink. He does this for about a minute, until he was sure that he couldn't get any more water out. He looks back up, stands straight.

"Right then," He says, turning to me. "Did you get me clothes?"

"Yes," I answer. "Uhm, I didn't know if you wanted anything specifically, so I just bought a black hoodie and jeans. Is that alright?"

"Yes, yes. Fine." He replies.

I turn around and walk over to the counter where a plastic bag with the hoodie and jeans sat. I grab it and hand it to Sherlock. He immediately starts stripping, obviously not caring that I'm still in front of him. I blush and turn my back to him.

"Really, Molly?" Sherlock questioned. "I would have believed that with all of your years in your profession, you would not embarrassed upon seeing the human body."

At that I turned around. Not caring about the fact that I could feel the blood rush in my cheeks.

"I'm only being polite." I tell him. I then turn back around, hoping he didn't notice me blushing, but of course he did. About a minute later, he speaks again.

"Alright, you can turn back around now." And I did.

I don't know what I expected seeing him in a hoodie and jeans would be like. Not to say it wasn't attractive, but it was definitely not the most attractive he's ever been- especially with the water from his hair dripping onto his shoulders.

I opened my mouth to say something, when I heard a ringing from my pocket-my phone. I unlock it, look at the caller idea, and gasp.

"She-Sherlock," I stammer. "It's- It's John. What sh-"

"Answer it." He answers, cutting off my words. "On speaker, please."

I answer, and think about how I should tell him.

"Hello?"

"Molly!" John cries into the phone.

"John, uhm. Listen."

"How is he?"

"John."

"Where is he?"

"John!"

"When can I see him?"

"John, please. Listen to-"

"When can he come ba-"

"John!" I yell, and he goes silent.

"John. You need to listen to me." I explain, taking a moment to think. "John, Sherlock's. Sherlock, he's. He's… gone."

"What do you mean 'gone'?" He says sounding distressed.

"He's gone, John." I say, catching myself sniffling. "He's dead."

"No. No. God, no." He pauses. "No, he. He can't be. He-"

There's silence for a minute, then my phone starts beeping. He hung up. I look back up at Sherlock, just in time to see a single tear fall from his right eye.

I don't know what I was thinking, but next thing I know, my arms are around him and my head is against his chest. His arms don't go around me, but I don't care.

"I'm so sorry." I tell him. I just stand there with him, and he finally lightly puts his arms around my upper back.

"Thank you Molly," He says. "For everything you're doing for me."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Again, chapters will get better (And longer). I hope you all are enjoying it so far. c: xxx**_

_**–OH**_

* * *

As we walk through the hospital, we don't receive any strange looks. Some of my co-workers smile at me, but they don't seem to even notice Sherlock. Maybe they don't recognize him, or maybe they just don't know that he's dead- or supposed to be dead. It should be in the newspapers tomorrow.

We silently walk through the lobby. One of the doctors stops me as we walk.

"You headed out then?" She asks.

"Yeah. My shift just ended a while ago, but I had some work I had to finish up." I tell her. I look over at Sherlock, who I can tell us making deductions about her.

"Alright. Well see you tomorrow?"

"See you." I smile, and Sherlock and I walk out of the hospital.

The cab ride home was quiet. Sherlock kept his head towards the window, probably thinking, I use this time to think too. There is so much going on in my head at the moment. Like, how are Sherlock and I going to live together? How am I going to hide him? I can't keep him locked up in my flat or he'll go stir crazy.

My thinking is interrupted by the sound of the cab door closing. The cab is stopped in front of my flat and I get out and walk to Sherlock who is silently waiting on the pavement. I walk to the door and open it. I walk in with Sherlock trailing behind me.

When I step in, I take off my lab coat and hang it on the coat rack. Sherlock closes the door, and when I turn around he is looking around the room, He must be making deductions on my lifestyle now.

"So the spare room is upstairs," I say. "I guess you can get settled in if you'd like."

He just nods and walks to the stairs. He's almost there when he steps and turns around.

"Who was the doctor you were talking to?" He asks.

"Mary Morstan," I respond. "Why?"

"I thought she looked familiar." He turns around, walks up two more steps, and turned back around. "One more thing, Molly."

"Yes?"

"My coat," He looks down, then back up. "Give it to John if you can." He smiles slightly and walks up the staircase to his room.


	5. Chapter 5

When I wake up in the morning, I go downstairs to make. When I get to the kitchen, Sherlock is already in there making coffee. He turns his head to look at me, and then turns his head to look at me, and then turns back to his coffee.

"I'm sorry Molly, would you like some?" He asks me.

"Sure," I say. "Thanks."

"He starts making my cuppa, and I think there are still things we need to discuss.

It takes Sherlock a few minutes to make the coffee, so I sit in my couch and wait. When he's made them, he comes over, hands me my cuppa, and sits down next to me. I take a sip of my coffee. It's black with two sugars; strong. I shake my head slightly and set the mug on the dark wooded coffee table in front of us.

"Sherlock," I start, turning towards him. "I guess we need to discuss this."

"I shouldn't be here long. I need to hide away at least until the news dies down on my 'death'. Today we can go out and get necessary supplies: hair dye, clothes, and a phone." He says fast, taking a breath after 'death'.

"And how are you going to pay for everything?" I ask him. "I can probably lend you £100, but that's it."

"No need, Molly. I have some pocket money and I can get money from an atm. I have several accounts, in different aliases of course, that I can get money from." He tells me, sipping from his coffee when he's don speaking.

"Alright. Well, I'm going to make some pancakes. What would you like?" I ask, getting off of the couch.

"Let's see, what day is?"

"Saturday."

"Alright, I should be goof for a couple more days."

"You mean you're not going to eat?"

"No need to unless it's necessary. Eating slows me down." He informs me, sipping from his coffee again.

"Sherlock, you need to eat."

"No, I'm not hungry." He whines.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"About three days ago."

"God, Sherlock!" I exclaim, shaking my head.

"Molly, I don't eat while I'm on a case. It slows me down." He explains, finishing his coffee.

"Right, well I have a feeling you won't have any cases for awhile, except maybe 'the case of Molly's missing socks', at least while you're living with me,"

"Molly." He whines.

"Shut up, you're eating. Now, what would you like?"

"A pancake." He says. I give him a look, not believing his answer. "Three pancakes." He restates, rolling his eyes, and I smile at the thought of him giving up.


	6. Chapter 6

After I gave Sherlock his food, he played with it for about 10 minutes; mashing it up the pancakes with his fork and pushing it around in the syrup. I stared at him, my eyes scolding him for his childish behavior. When he noticed my glare, he scooped up of his torn up pancake on his fork and slowly put it in his mouth. "Mmmm." He hummed, immediately scooping up another bite and putting it in his mouth. I smiled and started to eat my pancakes as well.

"So, Sherlock," I start. "Are you going to come with me? You know, to buy what ever you need?"

He swallowed and said, "Yes, I suppose so."

"So, um, when is it you want to leave?" I ask.

"Hmm?" He hums, taking another bite. He's clearly more focused on his food then what I'm saying.

"To go to the store." I say, rolling my eyes. "I have some errands I need to run anyway, so we might as well go today."

"Oh. Whenever you're ready is fine."

We left about an hour later and took a cab to the closest market. We split up in the shop; Sherlock getting what he needed, and me getting what I needed. While on the dairy isle, I saw a familiar face.

John Watson.

I know I couldn't talk to him, Sherlock was probably waiting for me at the front of the shop by now, but I couldn't leave without saying something either.

"John." I say, approaching him. He spun around, and looked at me for a moment, almost like he didn't recognize me.

After a moment, he finally spoke. "Oh, Molly." He said, exhaustion showing in his voice. "I didn't recognize you for a moment. It's, err, probably just shock. It's the shock, I guess." He looked terrible. His eyes were puffy and red from crying. He was also dark under his eyes; obviously didn't get any sleep last night.

"I'm so sorry, John," I say sympathetically. "How are you feeling?"

"Not that well," He says, fighting off tears. "He was my best friend. No one will ever convince me that he told me a lie. I just…" He trails off, and neither of us talks for a few minutes.

"Um, are there…arrangements yet?" I ask.

"Yeah." He takes a deep breath. "Tomorrow, it's– the fu–…" He stops himself from continuing that sentence. After a moment, he continues. "It's tomorrow at 3:00."

"I'll be there." I promise.

"Thank you, Molly." He says. Before I leave, I give him a hug, and then I hurry to the front of the store and use a chip and PIN machine. Sherlock was waiting at the door and spotted me. He walked over, carrying two bags.

"Finally." He muttered as he reached me.

"Sorry," I apologize, rolling my eyes and scanning items as fast as I can. "You might want to be careful. I ran into John." I warn.

"What?"

"He's here. Just go get us a cab, I'll be out in a minute." I tell him, motioning to the door. He leaves and I continued to scan the last items. I paid, grabbed the bags, and went outside where there was already a cab waiting outside with Sherlock in the backseat. I opened the door and climbed in next to him. The cab took of and the ride back to my flat was silent.

"God, Molly." Sherlock whined. " Your dying my hair, not pulling weeds." I rolled my eyes.

"Oh shut up. I've seen children tougher than you." I tell him. He winces as I pulled at a knot in his hair. "It might've helped if you would have combed your hair before."

"Where am I supposed to get a comb from?"

"I've got tons in the bathroom."

"Oh." He said, as if he didn't expect me to own combs. I felt offended, but I tried not to show it.

"Alright," I said, rubbing the last bit of hair dye into his hair. "We have to let this sit for a bit and then I can wash it out for you.

"Thank God." He said. "What's that smell?" He asked.

"The hair dye."

"Oh God, that's horrid."

I laughed. "Yeah. It is isn't it?"

An hour later we were in the bathroom. He was leaning over the tub and I was using the showerhead to wash the dye out of his hair. I could already see the difference. The tub water was full of color, as if all of the dye had been washed out.

"That is a lot of color in the water," Sherlock started. "Did you wash it all out?"

"No. There's still some dye in your hair."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, trust me. I'm sure." I removed my hands from his hair and stepped back, grabbing a dark towel from the sink and handing it to him. "There."

He grabbed the towel and rubbed his hair with it. After a minute, he took it off and tossed it in the hamper. Turning to me, he said, "How does it look?"

I took a minute to find the right word, which never popped into my mind. It was like the hoodie. Not necessarily good or bad. It was just different.

So that's what I told him.

"Different." He repeated. "Good different, or bad different?"

"I dunno, it's just… different."

"What color is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"What color is it?" He repeated.

"You don't know what color you got?" I asked him.

"I was just trying to get out as fast as I could. I hate shopping."

"Well, that explains why you picked this color." I said, laughing.

"What?" He asked, starting to get a bit worried about the color he chose.

"Look for yourself." I said, pulling him over and steadying him in front of the mirror. He took a moment to look at himself.

"Oh my…"

"Yes."

"Out of all the colors…"

I started laughing. I never would have imagined Sherlock like this.

"It's…"

"Ginger."

"That's not even ginger, Molly!" He exclaimed. "That's red!"

"Well it's close enough!"

"But it's not! Its as red as a telephone booth!"

"You know Sherlock, some people can actually pull off hair that bright," I told him. "You are not one of those people." He gave me a horrific look and I laughed. Maybe that one wasn't as bad as some of the things he tells me, but at least he knows how it feels. "Come on," I told him, pulling him towards the door. "Let's go watch crap telly."


	7. Chapter 7

The first few weeks were not easy, especially for Sherlock. He was going crazy from not having any cases. I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't had the first week off of work (since I knew Sherlock, they let me take it off) he would have completely destroyed my flat out of boredom. The only time I left him was the day of the funeral.

There really isn't much to say about the funeral. Not many people were there; only John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and some bloke named Mike Stamford was there. I had stayed after the burial for a bit, comforting John before I left. I even said a bit about Sherlock during the funeral, which involved stuttering and crying.

The second week, I was back at work. I missed my morgue, but I still didn't feel comfortable about leaving Sherlock by himself. When I came back, I was surprised to find my flat the way I left it.

I slowly walked in; everything was quiet, maybe too quiet. Sherlock lay on the couch in the sitting room. His eyes were closed and his hands were in prayer position over his mouth. He was completely silent, not moving at all. I slowly walked over to him. _Is he asleep?_ I wondered to myself.

"Sherlock?" I said quietly, trying to see if he was awake. It took a moment but his eyes opened.

"Yes, Molly?" He asked.

"I'm back," I told him. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course."

"S-Sorry, it's just that…" I noticed something poking out from under his long sleeves. "Hang on, what's that?"

"Oh, that's nothing Molly. Do not worry about–" Sherlock started, but stopped when I pulled his sleeve up. He had five nicotine patches on his arm.

"Oh my God Sherlock!" I shouted.

"What?" He asked. "They help me to think."

I placed two fingers on his wrist to feel his pulse, which was fast. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" I asked, ripping the patches off of his arm one by one. Sherlock watched my hands, but didn't try to stop me. "How long have you had those on?" I asked, worried.

"About an hour."

I pulled off the last patch and threw them away. I saw the box of patches on the coffee table and picked them up, reading the box. "Do you have a headache?" I asked.

"Why would I–"

"Sherlock," I said, becoming exasperated. "Do you have a headache?"

"No."

"Dizzy?"

"No," He said. "Molly, I'm perfectly fi–"

"Where did you get these?" I asked.

"I bought them when we went shopping." He took his hands off his mouth and tried to sit up, but fell back down.

"Are you sure you're not dizzy?" I asked, disbelieving him.

"Molly, I'm perfectly fine." He said, actually sitting up this time.

I looked at the box of nicotine patches in my hand, and shook my head. "I'm hiding these." I told him.

"Why?" He asked, clearly annoyed at me.

"Because I don't want you to overdose Sherlock!" I shout, walking towards my bedroom. I throw the box onto my bed and come back out, shutting the door. I'll hide it later.

"Molly, I am not going to–"

"Sherlock, with your past," I start, thinking about the first year I met Sherlock in uni. "That's not something I am willing to risk."

"That was years ago," He takes a breath. "I don't see why you're so worried about me, Molly."

"Because I lo– care about you, Sherlock!" I tell him. "Remember, I was there! I saw you during your darkest moments! I helped you through it!"

"I can care for myself Molly." Sherlock say, his voice as cold as usual.

"Tell me then, Sherlock." I start, getting angry at his stubbornness. "Why the hell are you here?" I immediately put my hands over my mouth; I didn't mean to say that. He took a breath and stood up, taking a moment to make sure he didn't fall over. Then he walked towards the door.

"Sherlock, wait–" I call to him, but he doesn't listen to me. He walks out the door without looking back, slamming it behind him. My hands return to my mouth and I fall to my knees. _What have you done? _I think to my self. _You're such an idiot, Molly. _I sob into my hands, shocked at everything I had said.

**(Third-Person POV)**

Sherlock walked as quickly as he could away from Molly's small flat. He could care for himself, she was right. So, why was he there? He walked several blocks, his mind racing. He had no idea why he was staying at Molly's, and he couldn't stand not knowing why. Finally, he stopped a block away from Baker Street. Could he do this? Should he tell John? He had nowhere to stay now, so why not?

_No_, he thought. _It's not safe enough yet. _He still had to find the new leader of Moriarty's network. _How could I be so stupid? _He thought, smacking himself in the face. _I wasn't doing anything at Molly's. I did nothing to track them! How am I to ever return to Baker Street without taking down the network first? John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, They aren't safe until the network is down. _He shook his head at the thought of Molly. Why did she care so much?

She was right though. She had always been there for him, even through his hardest times, when they first became _friends,_ during uni. He didn't even remember most of uni; he was too involved with drugs. He started off experimenting with cocaine, but he quickly grew tired of it and the burning feeling that came along with it. Soon, his provider came up with something else for him, something even more addictive. Heroin.

The first time he tried, he swore it was the best experience he had ever had. He felt amazing, at ease. He felt incredible. He always tried to get the same feeling. He tried over and over again, but he never got the same results as the first time. He still tried over and over, sometimes giving up on the feeling and then soon relapsing, and every time, Molly was there for him. She was all he had left.

Molly was always there to help him through all of that. Whenever he was unconscious in an alley, no matter where he was, she would come get him. She went to the darkest places, places she could have easily been raped, or kidnapped, or killed, she always came. Whenever he went through withdrawal, she stayed with him and tried to help him through.

One day though, after pulling him from another alley for what seemed like the hundredth time, she couldn't take it anymore.

_"Sherlock, I–I can't do this anymore." Molly told him a few days after taking him back to his flat. She had stayed with him a few nights while he recovered._

_ "What?" Sherlock asked, not understanding._

_ "I–I can't do this anymore, Sherlock," She repeated. She grabbed his hand. "I'm not going to sit here and watch you slowly kill yourself."_

_ "Molly," Sherlock said, beginning to realize what she was saying. "Please, don't."_

_ "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I just can't do this anymore. It hurts, watching you kill yourself."_

_ "Molly, please." Sherlock begged, tears beginning to form in his eyes as he realized that he was losing his only friend because of his addiction._

_ "I'm sorry." She kissed his cheek, squeezing his hand lightly as she pulled back. She sat there for a moment, looking into his eyes, then let go of his hand, stood up, and walked out of his flat._

_ Sherlock didn't return to uni after that. He spent months cleaning himself up and trying to quit drugs. He never had any help after Molly left his flat that night, but she called him once a month for a year, asking about his progress and when Sherlock had finally seemed to have quit, Molly met him for coffee and they talked again. Sherlock told her about his distraction from drugs; his new job as the world's only consulting detective._

He sat down on the steps of someone's flat and thought about that night. There was only one thing that he didn't understand. Molly was there. She saw him at his worst and she still came back for him. She still returned after his darkest times, but why?

Why did she come back?

Sherlock stood up again, hearing voices from around the block. He walked the corner and peered around it. He saw a blonde haired woman talking to John. He was smiling, but just from one look Sherlock could tell he wasn't as happy as he look.

Red, baggy eyes… two-day shirt, he hasn't even been shaving. And this woman- who was she? Sherlock waited for the woman to turn around so he could see her face. After a minute, she hugged John and turned around, walking away from him.

Mary Morstan.

_All right, so John's got a new girlfriend, _Sherlock deduced from the hug. Sherlock took his mind off of John; it didn't help to be thinking about John, although he did think about what just happened between him and Molly. Maybe he did need to think about John. What would John do if he got into a fight with his flatmate? Oh, but of course that has happened before. _So _Sherlock thought to himself. _What would John do? _

Sherlock turned, and walked quickly to the nearest pub.


	8. Chapter 8

**(Third Person POV)**

Sherlock didn't know why he was here. Since when was drinking an answer? What had John told him? _When you can't kill the pain, you numb it. _Yes, the wise words of John. So that is why Sherlock Holmes was now in a pub, drinking his problems away.

Sherlock put his drink down and called the bartender to get him another. He took the beer bottle and immediately started drinking it. A man about Sherlock's age sat down next him. He ordered a beer and turned to Sherlock. He watched Sherlock for a while, and Sherlock became annoyed by his staring.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, finishing his beer and signaling for another.

"Not at all," The man replied. "You?"

Sherlock forced chuckled. "Fight."

"Ah, really?" The man said. "With who?"

"Flatmate." Sherlock said, already half done with his third beer.

"Oh, good luck, mate!" The man said, laughing. "Maybe he'll forgive you."

"She." Sherlock corrected.

"Oh." The man stopped laughing. "Fight with your girlfriend?"

"No, just a, um, friend." Sherlock stuttered. "She's just letting me stay with her for a bit. I assume that deal is done with." Sherlock took another drink of his beer. He could already feel it kicking in.

"Maybe not. Who knows? Maybe she'll forgive you."

"I don't think so. She said some nasty things." Sherlock told him. "To be quite honest, I deserved them."

"Do fancy her?" The man asked.

"What?"

"You know," The man said, chuckling. "Do you fancy her? Like her?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. That couldn't be true, could it? "No, no. I can't."

"And why not?"

"Because that isn't me. That's not how I think. I just, can't."

"Sure." Sherlock finished his drink and signaled for another. "This one's on me." The man offered. Sherlock forced a smile, and his drink came along a moment later with another for the man.

"The name's Harry, by the way." The man told Sherlock.

"Gerard." Sherlock made up his new name. The man and him clinked their bottles together and started to drink. Sherlock thought about what Harry had said. Could he really have feelings for Molly Hooper? No. He couldn't. It's not possible. This is Sherlock Holmes.

He felt as if something was coming out. Something buried deep in his mind was coming to the surface of his mind. Something he's been hiding for years. What is it? Why had he been hiding it? What will happen once it's resurfaced?

**(Molly's POV)**

How long have I been in this position? Feels like hours, but it couldn't be. I slowly took my face out of my hands and looked at the clock above the door. It's been an hour since Sherlock left. Could I really have been crying for an hour? I wipe the tears from my eyes and slowly stand up. Where could Sherlock be now? He could be anywhere.

I walk towards the door, and grab my coat. I don't care how long it takes me.

I have to find him.

I wandered around London for around an hour. I checked alleys, shops; anywhere I thought I could find him. I checked and rechecked places but there was no sign of him.

I finally decide that he may have gone back to the flat by now and start heading back. I pass this little pub, just in time to see a tall man with bright red hair stumble out. He clung on to my shoulder and I pushed him off. Then I realized who it was.

"Oh my God Sherlock!" I shout.

"Shhh…Shh." He put a finger on my lips and stumbled into me. "They, they mustn't know my–my name."

I help him sit on the ground. "Wait here. I'll get us a cab." I hailed a cab and turned back in time to see him attempt to stand up but trip and fall over. I help him up and get him into the cab.

I tell the cabbie my address, and he drives us there, Sherlock babbling nonstop random nonsense. When we got to the flat, I helped him inside and led him to the couch.

"Sherlock, how much did you drink?" I asked him. He smelled strongly of alcohol. He didn't answer. "Sherlock!"

"Wha –what?" He asked, as if he'd just come out of a daze.

"Oh god, your drunk."

"Am I? Well that's new. Never been drunk before. What an adventure this will be." He said.

I rolled my eyes. "No, what a hangover you will have. Go to sleep."

"But I'm not tired."

"Go to sleep!"

He closed his eyes. "No." He refused, but fell asleep a few minutes later. I put a blanket over him and went to my room. I should get some sleep as well. I have a feeling tomorrow will be a long day.

In the morning, I awoke to the sound of vomiting from the bathroom. _So it begins._ I thought. I got up and went into the bathroom. Sherlock was kneeled in front of the toilet and was breathing heavily. I walked in and put my hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sick." He told me.

"Yes, you are." I confirmed.

"I'm never sick."

"Well, today you are." I told him. "You've got a hangover."

"A hangover?" He asked. "Wouldn't that have involved me getting drunk?"

"Yes."

"Then why am I–?"

"Because you were drunk."

"What? When?"

"Last night, after our um, fight, I found you stumbling out of a pub completely wasted."

"I don't remember that." He told me.

"You wouldn't." I told him. "You were terrible. Got a headache?"

His hand moved to his forehead and he stood up, flushing the toilet. "Yes." I opened the medicine cabinet above the sink and got out a bottle of Ibruprofin and a small cup. I handed him the cup, which I had filled with water, and two pills.

"Here." He took the pills and washed them down with the water.

"Ever had a hangover?"

"I may have drunk before Molly, but I've never been drunk. So I've never had a hangover before." He informed me.

"Well then," I took out my phone and dialed the hospital. "This is going to be a long day for you."

"What are you doing?"

"Calling out," I told him. "I'll need to take care of– Yes, this is Molly Hooper. I work in the morgue. I'm going to have to take today off. I'm, um, sick…Yeah I think it's just a um," I fake a cough. "A 24 hour thing…Yes, thank you for understanding. Okay. Bye." I hang up.

"You didn't have to do that." Sherlock told me. "I can take care of my self.

I look at him a moment. "No, you can't." I smiled at him weakly and left, coming back with his pyjamas. "I know you probably feel like shit, but you'll want to take a shower and change out of those clothes. You smell awful." He took the clothes.

"Well then, Miss Hooper," He said. "Aren't you going to leave?"

I blush and go to the living room. I guess Sherlock is here to stay.

Well, at least until he can return to Baker Street.


	9. Chapter 9

**(Molly's POV)**

Months went by and Sherlock was going mad. I thought he was okay. I thought he was doing all right, but he wasn't. I kept hiding his nicotine patches, but he kept finding them and then hiding them from me. I always caught him before he got too sick from them, but I was scared something was going to happen. What if he started doing drugs again?

I had to watch him, which was hard. I was always at work or he locked himself in his room. Sometimes I'd come home and he was yelling at the telly. He'd watch crime shows and he'd figure out who had committed the crime within the first 10 minutes of the show and spend the rest of it shouting at the detectives for being idiots. Sometimes I could convince him to watch telly with me, but I almost never saw him.

It's almost like he was avoiding me. Maybe he was. Why would he? Had I done something wrong–aside from hiding his nicotine patches? Well, he'd seemed distracted for a while. Maybe he _was_ on drugs again and was afraid I was going to find out. Well, whatever was wrong, I felt like I needed to find out.

**(Third-Person POV)**

Sherlock sat on his bed in the spare bedroom of Molly's small flat. He stared at the wall, thinking of the situation he was in. Whenever Molly was working at the morgue, Sherlock got on her laptop and tried to track down the people behind Moriarty's network and destroy it so he could return to his flat.

His flat.

The bullet wounded smiley face on the wall caused by Sherlock's boredom. The Cluedo board on the wall. His chair. John. That's where he belonged, right? In his flat with his flatmate. Solving crimes and annoying the hell out of people.

Here, in Molly's small flat, he couldn't think. He never had the problem before the night he went to the pub. He couldn't figure out what that feeling was. What was happening to him? What was changing? He thought it had something to do with Molly.

That's why he's been avoiding her. He didn't know what was going on with himself. Did he have…feelings? For Molly Hooper? No. No he couldn't. Sherlock Holmes doesn't have feelings, not like this. Sentiment. It's not possible, especially after Irene Adler. He realized that, although he never had feelings for one before, you could never trust a woman. She would get you where she wanted to and distract you from anything and everything of importance. And that's just what he needs, right?

Well, maybe he did. He wasn't having much luck with tracking down the network. No–he should be completely focused on the network. He couldn't have any distractions.

Why was he even letting him think about this? Just thinking about the unnecessary was an unneeded distraction. He needed to focus, but how could he do that if he was here? He couldn't leave the flat without Molly. He had tried, but Molly wouldn't let him. She said it was too much of a risk.

Sherlock couldn't take much more of this. He felt claustrophobic, trapped in Molly's flat. He couldn't do this. He needed something, anything. He was so bored.

A case he needed a case. He couldn't go to Lestrade, or John. What could he do?

"Molly," He approached her one day. "We need to run away together."


	10. Chapter 10

"What?" Molly asked.

"I need to leave London, Molly." Sherlock told her. "I simply cannot think here. I need to leave the city, the country. I need to go anywhere but here."

"Okay, I understand," Molly started. "But, why do you want me to come? You don't need me."

"Yes, Molly, I do need you." Sherlock took her hand and placed his index and middle finger on her wrist, feeling her pulse. He smiled."And I know you want to come."

"Why would you think that?" Molly asked.

"Because I took your pulse." She blushed at his words. "Elevated. Although, maybe you're having some doubt?"

"I can't leave, Sherlock." Sherlock's smile seemed to disappear.

"Why not?" He asked her, letting go of her wrist.

"Because I can't." She told him. "You were right, I would love to, really I would, but I can't. I – I've got work, and I can't just quit. Why do you want me to come, anyway?" She suddenly felt more confident with her words. "And don't tell me that 'I need you' shit because I don't believe it."

Sherlock sighed, and turned his back to Molly. He put his hands in prayer position, and placed them in front of his mouth. "Why in deed?" He started pacing. "I don't know. Why do I?"

"I know why." Molly said. Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to look at her. She took a step forward. "You don't want to be alone."

Sherlock dropped his hands to his side and stepped closer to her, although they were still a few feet apart. He cocked his head and looked at her. "No. I'm fine with being alone. That can't be it."

"It is though," Molly said. "You don't want to be alone Sherlock. You may a psychopath–"

"High-functioning sociopath."

"High-functioning sociopath," Molly rolled her eyes. "But, you can still get lonely. And you don't tell people that you do. Why?"

"No, Molly. I don't get lonely. I'm completely fine with myself." He said, turning his back to her again.

Molly walked in front of him, and stood there. Their bodies were inches apart, and she grabbed his wrist and did to him as he had done to her minutes ago. He immediately figured out what she was doing and quickly pulled his wrist away from her. She smiled. "Then tell me, Sherlock, why has your pulse elevated?"

"I – I don't."

"Maybe…you have feelings you don't even know about." She sighed. "If you really need to leave, Sherlock, then go. I'll stay and wait for you, but I can't just go."

"No." Sherlock said.

"What?"

"I don't have to go now." He explained. "I can't leave right now. There are still things I need to prepare for; things I need to figure out first. But now, how about we go to this little restaurant I know of?"

"Um, okay." Molly said, blushing again. "Let me get ready." She turned and headed to her room.

Ten minutes later, Molly was taking a shower and Sherlock was watching telly. There was a ring at the door, and Sherlock stood up to answer it. He opened the door, and someone he had been expecting for awhile stood in front of him.

"Hello, brother dear. Mind if I pop in?"

Mycroft Holmes sat on Molly's sofa. Sherlock stood in front of him, staring at him.

"Yes, hello to you too, Sherlock." Mycroft said sarcastically.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked his older brother.

"We need to talk." Mycroft told him.

"About?"

"Your plans."

"For?"

"The future."

"You know my plans, Mycroft." Sherlock said. "I'm going to–"

"Dismantle James Moriarty's network, yes I know." Mycroft said. "The question is: When? You've done nothing. And as far as I can tell, you won't be doing anything if you stay in London."

"Well, I've needed to think, and find out where to go."

"Great hair, by the way." Mycroft said sarcastically. "It looks marvelous on you, little brother."

Sherlock crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "The color was an accident."

"Of course it was."

Sherlock turned around to face the bathroom as Molly walked out. She wore a pink jumper and dark jeans. "Sherlock who are you talking–" She stopped when she saw who was in her sitting room. "Who's that?"

"Hello, Miss Hooper." He greeted her.

"Molly, this is my brother, Mycroft. Mycroft, this is–" Sherlock introduced

"Dr. Molly Elizabeth Hooper, yes I know."

"Of course you do." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes again.

"Oh, hello Mr. Holmes. What are you doing here?"

"Just reminding Sherlock of what he needs to do."

"Ans what's that?" Molly asked.

"He is referring to me taking down Moriarty's network." Sherlock told Molly.

"And that's why you need to leave?" Molly asked.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "I won't be able to do that here, I just need to find out where, and how." Mycroft stood up as Sherlock spoke. He started walking to the door.

"Yes," Mycroft told him. "And you may want to give Mummy a call." He stopped and turned to Sherlock. "She worries about you, you know? Good evening Miss Hooper." At that he walked out of the flat.

"Come on Molly," Sherlock said, walking towards the door with Molly at his heels.


	11. Chapter 11

"So," I asked Sherlock. "What is it you need to do before you can leave?" We sat across from each other in a small restaurant. Sherlock had already finished his fish and chips, and I ate mine slowly.

"Eager for me to leave?" He asked.

"No. No! Of course not. It's just, I'm just a bit confused, that's all."

"I need to know where to go, what to do." He explained. "I don't have enough information. Although…" He trailed off.

"What?"

"Mycroft said that I wouldn't be able to do anything while in London."

"So?" I asked, finishing my meal. "Does he know?"

"He may know enough to get me started."

"And if he does…you're going to leave?"

"Stay with him for awhile, maybe. I need to dismantle his network, as soon as I can."

I got my wallet out of my purse, setting money on the counter and leaving a tip. "So, when will you be back?" I asked him, standing up. I started walking out of the restaurant with Sherlock at my side.

"I don't know," He told me. "It could take years."

Sherlock hailed a cab, and we got in. I told the cabbie my address and we were on our way. "So, you may not be back for years?"

"That is the most likely outcome."

Back at my flat, we stood in the hallway between my bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room. Sherlock was about to leave to go to Mycroft's and I was called into work.

"So," I started. "You're off then?"

"Yes, I guess so." He said.

"Don't know if you'll be back tonight?"

"Probably not."

"Or at all?" He didn't say anything. I took a step closer to him. "Before you go, I want to say one thing."

"What?" He asked.

"One thing, one thing that anybody, even a sociopath like you would understand."

"What exactly is that supposed to–" As he spoke I stood on the tip of my toes, grabbing the lapels of his suit and pulling him down. I pressed my lips to his. He was stiff for a moment, and then he kissed me back the best he knew how. I pulled away as he put his arms around my lower back. I looked up at him, putting my hand in my pocket and pulling out something. He stared at me, confused. I placed the object in his hand and closed his fingers over it. He opened his hand, and looked at the key I had given him.

"You'll always be welcome here," I told him, smiling faintly. I pulled him into a hug. After a few seconds, I pulled away from his stiff body, and looked up at him again. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."

"Goodbye, Molly Hooper." At that, I walked out of my flat and hailed a cab, not looking back.

**(Third-person POV)**

"I can arrange a private flight." Mycroft said to his little brother.

"Yes." Sherlock said, turning way from his brother's desk and looking at a large map of the world.

"You can be out of here by morning."

"I will," He walked up to the map and pointed at several random locations. "This is everywhere, yes?"

"Everywhere you will need to go. I can't guarantee you will return soon."

"No, I won't."

Mycroft stood up from his desk and started towards the door of his office. He stopped and turned to his brother. "Until the next time, little brother?"

Sherlock said nothing, so Mycroft turned back and walked out of his office.


	12. Chapter 12

**WARNING: Spoilers/Transcript from The Empty Hearse**

**(Molly's Flat | Third-Person POV)**

Molly turned on the telly, switching the channel to the news.

"…that after extensive police investigations, Richard Brook _did_ prove to be the creation of James Moriarty…" A reporter stated. Molly changed the channel.

"…amidst unprecedented scenes, there was an uproar in court as Sherlock Holmes was vindicated and cleared of all suspicion…" She changed the channel on another reporter.

"…but sadly, all this comes too late for the detective who become something of a celebrity two years ago…" Molly changed the channel again.

"…questions are now being ask as to why police let matters get so far…"

"Sherlock Holmes fell to his death from London's Bart's hospital. Although he left no note, friends say it's unlikely he was able to cope with…" This time, she turned off the television. That seemed to be the only thing on the news.

Sherlock had not been back, and Molly was beginning to lose hope of ever seeing him again. She hadn't heard from him, or Mycroft. Maybe he wouldn't be coming back.

**(Serbia | First-Person POV)**

With every lash from the large metal pipe, I began to feel weaker and weaker. The chains attached from my wrists to the walls of the interrogation room were rubbing my wrists raw. I was bent over, and I stared at the floor. Never have I ever had to endure this much pain.

The torturer spoke Serbian, but I could translate it easily. _"You broke in here for a reason," _He had said. _"Just tell us why, and you can sleep. Remember sleep?"_

I muttered something, which barely I could hear myself.

_"What?" _The torturer asked, pulling my head up by my overgrown hair and leaning down to hear me. I repeated what I had said.

_"Well? What did he say?"_ A soldier asked, also in Serbian. The torturer dropped my head.

_"He said I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair." _He told the soldier. He picked my head back up, and I whispered to him in Serbian again._ "That the electricity in my bathroom isn't working; and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbor!" _He picked my head up again, then dropped it after I had whispered again. _"The coffin maker! If I go home now, I'll catch them at it! I knew it! I _knew _there was something going on!" _I heard his footsteps as he stormed out of the room.

My whole body was slumped over, my arms upwards, still restrained by the chains. My grown hair dangled in front of my face, blocking my view. I hear slow footsteps towards me as the soldier speaks. _"So, my friend. Now it's just you and me. You have no idea the trouble it took to find you." _He grabs a handful of my hair and pulls my head up, leaning his mouth next to my ear.

"Now listen to me," He continues in English, and I recognize the voice immediately. "There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear." Mycroft drops my head. "Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."

**(Mycroft's Office | Sherlock's POV Still)**

"You have been busy, haven't you?" Mycroft said. "Quite the busy little bee."

I threw the newspaper I had been reading to a nearby trolley and stared up at the ceiling. I was lying flat on my back in a barber's chair and a man was shaving my face with a cutthroat razor. My hair was cut back to its usual length, which felt way better than it had before. Mycroft sat at his desk, watching me.

"Moriarty's network – Took me two years to dismantle it." I tell him.

"And you're confident you have?" He asked me.

"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle."

"Yes. You got yourself deep in there…with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme."

"Colossal."

"Anyway, you're safe now."

"Hmm." I grunted.

"A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss." He hinted.

"What for?" I asked.

"For wading in," I held up my hand for the barber to stop as Mycroft spoke. "In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu."

I sat up, grunting in pain. I looked at my brother angrily. "'Wading in?' You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp."

"I got you out." Mycroft frowned indignantly.

"No– I got me out. Why didn't you intervene sooner?"

"Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything."

"You were enjoying it." I stated.

"Nonsense." He disagreed.

"_Definitely_ enjoying it."

Mycroft leaned forward. "Listen: do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going 'undercover', smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The _noise_; the people."

I painfully sank back into the chair, changing the subject, "I didn't know you spoke Serbian." The barber continued to shave me.

"I didn't, but the language has a Slovak root, frequent Turkish and German lone words," Mycroft shrugged. "Took me a few hours."

"Hmm…you're slipping."

"Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all." Mycroft told me. The door opened and Anthea, a woman who works for Mycroft, comes in. She holds a hanger with a dark suit and a white shirt hanging on it.

**(St. Bart's Hospital | Third-Person POV)**

Molly walked into the locker room at the end of her shift. She walked over to her locker and opened it. When she looked up, she saw the face of Sherlock Holmes in the mirror. She gasped, and quickly turned. After a second, she smiled, and he returned the smile.

"Sherlock!" She said in disbelief, her smile getting wider.

"Hello, Molly." Sherlock greeted her.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming back."

"I was too."

"Two years!"

"I told you it wasn't going to be easy."

"So, have you told John?" Molly asked, and then she spotted a cut on his lip, and some dried blood under his nose. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Yes, and let's just say he wasn't very impressed." He laughed.

"So, you've done it then, haven't you? Dismantled Moriarty's network?"

"Yeah. Mycroft found me at the last side, in Serbia," Sherlock explained. "He said there was something going on, so he brought me back."

"Well, I'm glad you're back."

"It's good to be back." Sherlock smiled.

"So, would you like to get some coffee, or something?"

"I'd love to, but there are still a few people I haven't told yet about my return. Maybe next time?"

"Yeah, of course," Molly smiled. "Next time."

They walked out of the hospital together, and then went their separate ways. Molly smiling to herself all the way back to her flat.


	13. Chapter 13

_**More transcript from The Empty Hearse. Apologies, but I felt the need to write in every Sherlock/Molly scene from the new series.**_

_**–OH**_

* * *

I sit on my bed, thinking. I'm so glad Sherlock is back. He's been gone so long; I thought he might have been dead. But he's not, so I am so happy that he's back.

Maybe a bit too happy, happier than I should be.

But it's alright. Things will be back the way they were before and…

My phone trills a text.

_Baker Street. Come as soon as you can. Now would be best._

_ -SH_

I stare at the text before I reply.

_ Okay. Is something wrong?_

_ Mollyx_

I wait a moment for him to respond, but he doesn't, so I grab my coat and gloves and leave my flat.

**(221b Baker Street)**

When I walk into Sherlock's flat, he is standing at the window, looking out it.

"You wanted to see me?" I say.

"Yes," He turned to face me, then started walking towards me. "Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Would you…" He stops briefly; looking down at the floor, then continues to slowly walk towards me. "Would you like to…"

"Have dinner…" I suggest at the same time as he says, "Solve crimes?"

"Oh…" I sigh, awkwardly.

A while later, I sit in a dining chair next to Sherlock's chair. He is looking out the window and we have too clients, a man and his wife, in the room. The woman is sitting in John's chair and the man is standing next to her. As I listen to the man's story, I think about what is happening.

Sherlock Holmes and I… solving crimes? I don't understand. I get that John is angry with him and everything, but why am I here? Sherlock could have chosen anyone to help him, like Lestrade, but why did he choose me?

"…Monkey glans." Sherlock says, reminding me that I should be paying full attention to our clients. I bite back a smile at his words and he turns to the client. "But enough about Professor Presbury. Tell us more about_ your_ case, Mr. Harcourt."

"Are you sure about this?" I quietly ask Sherlock as he walks by me.

"Absolutely." He says.

"Should I be making notes?"

"If it makes you feel better."

"It's just that that's what John says _he _does, so if I'm being John…"

"You're not being John – You're being yourself." He tells me, sitting down in his chair next to me. I look away and smile.

"Well absolutely no-one should have been able to empty that bank account other then myself and Helen." Mr. Harcourt tells us. Sherlock stands up and starts to walk to Mr. Harcourt.

"Why didn't you assume it was your wife?" Sherlock asks.

"Because I've always had total faith in her." Mr. Harcourt tells him.

"No – It's because _you_ emptied it." Sherlock says, pointing at his stomach, hairline, and forehead as he says, "Weight loss. Hair dye. Botox. Affair." He swiftly takes a business card out of his pocket and gives it to Mrs. Harcourt. "Lawyer. Next."

"And then – then he emailed me and – and he said that…" A woman says, sobbing as she sits on the sofa next to her stepfather. Sherlock sat on a stool next to her, his hand clasped with hers. He sympathetically pats the crying woman's hand.

"And your pen pal's emails just stopped, did they?" He asked, speaking softly.

She nods. I make notes on a small notepad at the dining table.

"And you really thought he was the one? The love of your life?" Sherlock continues. He looks at me. The woman takes of her glasses and cries harder. Sherlock stands up and walks over to me, keeping his back to our clients.

"Stepfather posing as online boyfriend." Sherlock told me, speaking quietly.

"What?!" I whisper back, staring at him shocked.

"Breaks it off, breaks her heart. She swears off relationships, stays at home – he still has her wage coming in." He turned to the woman's stepfather and almost shouts at him. "Mr. Windibank, you have been a complete and utter bastard. What has Alison here ever done to you? I suggest you go home and break it off with your wife because if you want to break your stepdaughter's heart, why not break her mother's as well? Plus, she sure as hell will break it off with you when she finds out what you've done to poor Alison, so why not have the upper hand?" The man stood up and stormed out of the flat, Alison fallowing moments after. We could hear their fight and her angry sobs when they were out on the pavement.

"How the hell did you possibly figure that out?" I asked.

"Hardly a difficult deduction." He says. I roll my eyes. "Next!"

**(Crime Scene | Third Person POV)**

"This one's got us all baffled." Detective Inspector Lestrade says as he tears police tape off of a door.

"Mmm, Don't doubt it." Sherlock says.

Lestrade opens the door and Sherlock and Molly follow him down the stairs into a basement. When they get to the bottom of the stairs, what they see confuses them. At the far end of the room is a white-painted table with a skeleton in an old fashioned suit seated on a chair behind it. The skeleton holds a syringe in one of its hands, and a carafe, a glass, and a writing set is on the table. Sherlock frowns and walks over to it. He sets his tool pouch on the table and begins to examine the skeleton with his magnifying glass. Molly stands nearby, writing notes in her notebook.

Sherlock sniffs the skeleton, trying to decide what he smells.

**Pine?**

** Spruce?**

** Cedar.**

** New mothballs.**

** Carbon particulate.**

** Fire damage.**

He straightens up, closing his magnifying glass. Molly looks up at him.

"What is it?" She asks. "You're on to something, aren't you?"

"Mmm. Maybe."

**_SHOW OFF_**Sherlock heard John's voice in his head.

"Shut up, John." Sherlock whispers. Lestrade's eyes flicker towards him and Molly looks at him.

"What?" She asks.

"Hmm? Nothing." Sherlock says.

He walks to the other side of the table and continues examining the skeleton. He takes tweezers out of his tool pouch and carefully lifts the lapels of the skeleton's jacket.

"This gonna be your new arrangement, is it?" Lestrade whispers to Sherlock.

"Just giving it a go." Sherlock answers.

"Right. So, john?"

"Not really in the picture anymore." Sherlock moves away from the table and looks at the whole scene. Cement dust falls from the ceiling and a rumbling is heard. The three of them look up.

"Trains?" Molly asks.

"Trains." Sherlock agrees. He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth as Molly walks over to the corpse.

"Male. Forty to fifty," She says, examining the bones in its neck as Sherlock walks over to join her. She looks round at him. "Oh, sorry. Did you want to be…?"

"Er, no. Please, be my guest." He tells her.

**_JEALOUS? _**He hears John's voice in his head again.

"Shut up!" He says angrily through gritted teeth. Molly glances nervously at Lestrade, and Sherlock takes out his magnifying glass and examines the hand holding the syringe. Molly continues investigating the skeleton.

"Doesn't make sense." Molly says.

"What doesn't?" Lestrade asks. Sherlock blows dust away from the hand and continues to blow dust from the table.

"This skeleton – it's… it can't be any more than…" Molly starts.

"…Six months old." Sherlock and Molly say in unison.

Sherlock opens a secret compartment he found on the side of the table. He slides a book out of it and blows dust off the cover of it. He gives it a sarcastic look and shows it to Molly.

** How I Did It**

** By Jack the Ripper**

"Wow!" Molly exclaims.

"Hmm." Sherlock hums.

He drops the book flamboyantly on the table and Lestrade leans in to look at it.

"'How I Did It' by Jack the Ripper?" Lestrade says, confused.

"Mm-hm." Sherlock hums.

"Impossible!" Molly exclaims.

"Welcome to my world." Sherlock says to her.

Lestrade gives them a grin as Sherlock repacks his tool pouch.

**_ SMART ARSE _**The voice of John Watson rings in Sherlock's head again.

"Get out." Sherlock says angrily, but quietly, flailing towards his own head. He turns to Molly and the still grinning Lestrade. "I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you."

He turns and starts walking towards the door.

"No, please – insult away." Lestrade says.

**_You forgot to put your coat collar up. _**Sherlock grimaces at John's voice and stops in his tracks.

"The-the-the corpse is-is six months old; dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum," Sherlock stutters, disoriented from the commentary in his mind. "It's been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire-damage sale…" Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket and shows the screen, which holds information on the sale, to Lestrade. "…A week ago."

"So the whole thing was a fake?" Lestrade asks, disappointed.

"Yes." Sherlock confirms, turning and walking out of the room.

"Looked so promising."

"Facile." Sherlock, who was already out of sight, says.

"Why would someone go to all that much trouble?" Molly asked.

"Why indeed, John?" Sherlock says. Molly looks down awkwardly.

**(Molly's POV)**

Awhile later, Sherlock and I stand side-by-side at the door of a client's flat. We had already done several more cases, and I was beginning to forget about him calling me John earlier. Sherlock pushes the doorbell, but instead of flashing or a ringing, we hear a recording of a male voice saying 'Mind the gap. Mind the gap." I giggle and Sherlock gave me a half smile. A young man, Howard Shilcott, opens the door and Sherlock held out a bobble hat to him, which he had carried here.

"Oh – Thanks for hanging on to it." The Howard says.

"No problem." Sherlock says. The man grabs the hat and leads us into his flat. "So, what's this all about, Mr. Shilcott?"

The office Howard leads us to is very decorated. The walls are covered in photographs of trains and him with trains. There is a train set with moving trains. The rest of the room is mostly train memorabilia.

"My girlfriend's a big fan of yours." Howard says.

"Girlfriend?" Sherlock chuckles, and looks at me, grinning. I give him a look and his smile drops as he apologizes. "Sorry. Do go on."

"I like trains." Howard says, pointing out the obvious.

"Yes." Sherlock says.

"I work on the Tube," Howard explains. "On the District Line, and part of my job is to wipe the security footage once it's been cleared," He sits down at his desk, opening his laptop. "I was just, er, whizzing through and I found something a bit bizarre."

Sherlock mouths me a silent 'Oooh" and I smile at him. We walk to stand on either side of Howard, who pulls up footage of a train. There is only one person at the station, a business looking man with a briefcase is standing on the platform in front of the open doors of a carriage.

"Now this was a week ago. The last train on the Friday night, Westminster Station, and this man gets into the last car."

"'Car?'" Molly asks.

"They're cars, not carriages," Howard complains at her lack of train knowledge. "It's a legacy of the early American involvement in the Tube system." I give Sherlock an annoyed look and I can tell he is annoyed too.

"He said he liked trains." Sherlock says quietly to me, and I hold back a small laugh. He smiles.

"And the next stop…Saint James's Park…and…" He plays the next footage. The last _'car' _opens its doors at Saint James's Park and no one gets out. The car is empty. Thought you might like it." Howard says, replaying the footage. "He gets into the last car at Westminster, the _only_ passenger…and the car is empty at Saint James's Park. Explain _that, _Mr. Holmes."

"Couldn't he have just jumped off?" I ask. Sherlock shakes his head, getting more serious about the work.

"There's a safety mechanism that prevents the doors from opening in transit," Howard explains to me. "But there's something else. The driver of that train hasn't been to work since. According to his flatmate, he's on holiday. Came into some money."

"Bought off?" Sherlock suggests, turning to me.

"Hmm?" I hum, blankly. He looks at me for a moment, and then turns away from me and I feel heat rush to my cheeks.

_Come on Molly, focus._

"So if the driver of the train _was_ in on it, then the passenger _did_ get off." Sherlock says.

"There's nowhere he could go. It's a straight run on the District Line between the two stations. There's no side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels – nothing on any map. Nothing. The train never stops, and the man vanishes. Good, innit?" Howard says.

Sherlock closes his eyes, as if he is trying to remember something. "I know that face."

About ten minutes later, we were outside of Howards door. I walked down the steps towards the door to the building.

"So, Sherlock," I say. "What are you going to need?" I turn around and he is still standing at the top of the stairs, his eyes closed. He is completely still. "Sherlock? You alright?" There was another moment of silence and I start to walk slowly up the steps towards him. When I am a few steps away, his eyes open and I stop.

"The journey between those stations usually takes five minutes. That journey took ten minutes – ten minutes to get from Westminster to St James's Park. So I'm going to need maps – lots of maps, older maps, all the maps." Sherlock says, speaking fast.

"Right." I say.

"Fancy some chips?" He asks, walking down the stairs.

"What?"

"I know a fantastic fish stop just off the Marylebone Road," He says. "The owner always gives me extra portions."

"Did you get him off a murder charge?" I ask sarcastically, following him.

"No – I helped him put up some shelves."

I giggle and smile at him briefly. "Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" He says, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and turning to face me.

"What was today about?"

"Saying thank you."

"For what?"

"Everything you did for me."

"It's okay. It was my pleasure." I say, a bit dully, reaching the bottom of the stairs and walking towards the door.

"No," He says. "I mean it."

"I don't mean 'pleasure' I mean, I didn't mind. I wanted to." I give him a little smile.

"Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake," Sherlock says. "Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me, was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible," He drew in a deep breath. "But you can't do this again, can you?"

"I had a lovely day," I tell him, my voice sounding choked. "I'd love to…I just…um…" I look down at my hand.

"Oh, congratulations by the way." He says, noticing the engagement ring on my finger.

"He's not from work," I smile faintly. "We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He's nice. We ... he's got a dog ... we-we go to the pub on weekends and he ... I've met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family and I've no idea why I'm telling you this."

"I hope you will be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all, not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."

"No?"

"No." He steps closer to me, and gives me this beautiful sort of smile. Then, he leans down and kisses my cheek. I close my eyes and give him a weak smile. I don't open my eyes until he's left the building.

I look after the door. "Maybe that's just my type." I walk out the door, and it's snowing outside. I see Sherlock turn to the right, adjusting his coat and I head down the path, stopping at the end. I watch him walk away for a moment, then turn to the left and walk the separate way as him, trying my best to not think about what just happened.

"Hey Molly." Tom, my fiancé, greets me as he comes through the door. He walks over to me, and sits down on the sofa next to me.

"How was work?" I ask him.

"Stressful," He says. "Nina didn't show up again – But enough about that, how was _your _day?"

"Fine." I tell him.

"You hung out with that detective bloke, yeah?"

"Yeah. It was nice; it was fun."

"What did you do?"

"He just had some cases that he asked me to help him with."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." I say. He turns on the telly and switches to the news, where they are talking about Sherlock.

"What sort of man would fake his own death?"

"A good one," I say quietly, hoping he didn't hear me. He did though, of course.

"What?"

"Sorry, I just mean, he had a good reason."

"And how would you know that?"

"Because I helped him fake it."

"Babe, I don't want you to hang out with him again."

"What? Why not?"

"Because I heard he's a psychopath. There's no telling what he could do to you." He explains..

"We've been friends since Uni. If he was going to do something to me, it seems like he would have done it by now."

"Molly, just stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

I stand up and leave my sitting room. I walk to mine and Tom's bedroom and enter it, closing the door behind me. He can sleep on the sofa tonight, and I can think.


	14. Chapter 14

"How was the couch?" I ask Tom in the morning.

"Hell." He answers.

"Next time, stay out of my business."

"Not a chance." I roll my eyes at him.

I look at the clock. _Shit_. I'm almost late for work.

"Damn it," I say. "I woke up late. Good thing I'm already dressed."

"Yeah, I guess so." Tom said, standing up and walking over to me. He placed a kiss on my lips, and I smiled at him.

"See you after work?"

"See you."

I grab my coat and walk out of the door.

The day goes by slowly, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. I'm still cross with Tom for telling me to stay away from Sherlock. It's none of his business. Well…maybe it is, but what is there to worry about? Sherlock wouldn't hurt me, would he?

No, of course he wouldn't. Why would he?

"Hello, Molly." A baritone voice says, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turn around, and see Sherlock standing behind me,

"Sherlock?" I say. "Are you on a case?"

"Kind of," He says. "Someone kidnapped John last night and put him in a bonfire, and I'm trying to figure out who did it."

"Oh my god, is he okay?"

"John? Oh, he's fine."

"Good."

"Do you know who would have done that?"

"How would I know?"

"Well, maybe you noticed something, or someone that has to do with this."

"No," I tell him. "I have no idea. Sorry."

"It's fine. I'll figure it out." He says.

"I hope so."

"Molly?"

"Yes?"

"We are having a bit of a get together at Baker Street tonight," He says. "Mary, John, and Lestrade will be there, along with Mrs. Hudson of course. Would you like to come?"

"I'd love to, but Tom and I were going to go out tonight."

"Tom?"

"My fiancée."

"Oh, of course," Sherlock says. "He can come too."

"Let me ask him," I say. "No promises though."

Sherlock gives me a smile and then leaves the morgue, leaving me to my autopsies and thoughts.

I open the door to 221b, the sign on the door said to just come in. I walk in and Tom stands at my side, holding my hand.

"Hello everyone." I say.

"Hey, Molly." John greets me.

"This is Tom," I introduce my fiancée. "Tom, this is everyone."

John stares at Tom, almost as if he's having a double-take, then he looks across the room at Sherlock.

"Hi." Tom says. John has a huge smile, but still has a look of surprise on his face. I can't imagine why. Is it that surprising that I'm engaged?

"Hi." Lestrade says, smiling and looking at John.

"It's really nice to meet you all," Tom says. He looks at John, who is still smiling. "Hi."

**(Sherlock's POV)**

As I look out the window at the crowd of paparazzi, I listen to the conversation going on behind me. So, Molly's fiancée is here. Well, better get this over with. I turn away from the window as John speaks.

"Wow," He says. "Yeah, hi. I'm John."

"Ready?" I ask, walking towards John, who is now looking at me, like he's waiting for something. The smile on his face tells me it's something he finds funny, but I may not.

"Ready." John says. I walk past Lestrade, and give him as friendly of a smile as I can. Then, I see him.

Tom. So, this is what John was waiting for. Tom looks like me. I don't mean he looks a bit like me, I mean he _looks_ like me. He could be a more believable brother for me than Mycroft.

I feel my jaw drop a little as I stare at Tom. He has dark, curly hair, which is a little shorter than mine. His eyes are a pale blue, and he has prominent cheekbones. He is wearing a dark overcoat, with the collar turned up. He wears a scarf around his neck, and it's tied the same way that I tie mine.

"Champagne?" Lestrade asks Molly.

"Thanks." Molly says, accepting the glass he held out to her.

I look over John, my jaw still dropped, and he is still grinning wildly at me. He looks like he's expecting something. Probably what horrifically rude thing I am going to say to Tom. I have several things in mind, but I instead shut my mouth and reach out my hand. We shake hands and I walk between Molly and Tom, and leave 221b, John follows behind a moment later, shutting the door behind him.

Out on the landing, I loop my scarf around my neck, and John looks at me.

"Did you, er…?" He asks quietly, pointing back at the door.

"I'm not saying a word." I say, just as quietly.

"No, best not."

**(Molly's POV)**

Shit, this was a mistake, wasn't it? He's going to say something about Tom. Oh my god, I seriously hate him sometimes.

Sherlock stood in front of Tom and I, his jaw dropped. Okay, what is wrong with everyone? What's so shocking? He looks over at John, who is still grinning. Sherlock looks back at us, and just when I think he is about to say every rude thing about Tom, and every deduction he's made, he sticks out his hand, and Tom takes it. Then, he walks in between us and leaves the flat with John following soon after.

"Thank you." Tom says as Greg Lestrade offers him a glass of champagne.

"Sit down, love." I hear Mrs. Hudson say.

"Oh," Tom says. "Thanks." He walks over and sits on the sofa. Greg turns to me.

"So, um, is it serious, you two?" He asks me.

"Yeah," I say, smiling. "I've moved on!" Greg looks doubtful, and looks over towards Tom. I ignore his expression and sit on the sofa next to Tom.

"You two serious, then?" Sherlock asks me a few hours later. Tom got a headache and went home early, and I stayed at Baker Street, just to irritate Tom. Mrs. Hudson went back to her flat, as well as Greg. John and Mary were in the kitchen, so Sherlock and I were in the sitting room alone.

"Yes, of course." I tell him. He looks doubtful, but then gives me a weak looking smile.

"Well, I hope you will be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it."

I smile at him. "Thank you."

He looks down, and his smile fades.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"Something's wrong. What is it?"

"I've just missed it here." He confesses.

"Oh."

"I'm glad to be back, surprisingly joyed."

"What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"While you were away, what happened?"

"I searched for member's of Moriarty's network and–"

"No," I say. "I mean, something happened during all of that. You're acting different Sherlock. Why?"

"I just," He says. "I've just missed you."

"Me?"

"You, and John. And Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"That's not it."

"Okay, okay. Something happened, and it's not easy to get out of my mind."

"Can't you just delete it?" I ask him.

"No," He says. "I've tried. It's just a strong, unpleasant memory."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

"Okay."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, and then I speak again. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

"Sorry?"

"If you ever need to talk to someone, I'm here."

"What would I need to talk to you about?"

"I dunno," I say. "Anything. Just so you know, Sherlock. You can always talk to me." He smiles at me.

"Thank you."

"No problem."

"I really mean it, Molly."

"I know." I smile at him.

I take out my phone and check the time: 10:00.

"I should be getting home." I tell Sherlock.

"Okay," He says. He stands up and walks to the door, me following him. He holds the door open for me, and I look at him. I smile, and hug him. He's unresponsive for a moment, but then puts his arms around my waist and hugs me back.

"I'm glad your back." I tell him.

"Me too, Molly Hooper."


	15. Chapter 15

"Hello Molly." Sherlock says as he comes through the morgue doors the next day.

"Oh, hey Sherlock," I say. "Are you here to see a body?"

"No, I'm here to ask you a question."

"Okay, what is it?" I ask.

Sherlock looks at me, confused.

"The question, Sherlock." I say.

"Oh, right," He says. "Do you like cats?"

"What?"

"You like cats, don't you?"

"Um, yes. Why?" I ask.

"John found a kitten in an alley this morning. Mary wouldn't let him keep it, and I can't take care of it, so would you like it?"

"Is it injured?" I asked.

"No, its fine," He assured me. "It's underfed, its ribs are prominent, but other then that it seems fine."

"Alright, I'll take it."

"Great."

"When should I get it?"

"After work, at whatever time will be convenient for you."

"Alright, thank you Sherlock." I smile at him. He smiles back and turns, walking out of the morgue.

After work, I went home to shower and then went to the shop to pick up some things.

I bought cat food, treats, a litter box and cat litter, and some toys. I didn't really know what all a cat needed, but I bought everything I knew it would need. After going to the shop, I got a cab to Baker Street. I couldn't help smiling as the cab pulled up outside of 221b. I was finally getting a cat! Oh, what would Tom say? I pushed aside the thought that he may not like the cat.

After Mrs. Hudson let me into the building, I walked up the steps to Sherlock's flat and knocked on the door. Sherlock answered almost immediately and gave me a smile.

"Hello Molly." He said.

"Hello Sherlock." I said.

He took a sidestep and let me walk in, closing the door behind me.

"So, where's the cat?" I ask him.

"It's sleeping in John's chair," Sherlock says. He gestures towards the sitting room. "Please."

I walk with him to the sitting room. He sits in his chair, and I pick up the kitten (who has just woken up) and sit in John's chair. I set it on my lap and pet it slowly. Soon, it has fallen asleep again.

"So," I say after a moment of silence. "What is it?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock hums.

"Male or female?" I rephrase.

"Oh," Sherlock says. "Male."

"Alright," I think for a moment. What would the perfect name for him be? After a few moments, I make my decision. "I'll call him Toby then."

"Why Toby?"

"Dunno," I look down at the grey striped, shorthair kitten on my lap and smile. "He just looks like a Toby."

"Strange, isn't it?" Sherlock says.

"What?" I ask.

"How one can look as if they are named something specific."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you look like your name is Molly. John looks like a John. Lestrade looks like a Gavin."

"His name is Greg, Sherlock." I tell him, rolling my eyes.

"Well, he looks like a Greg too," Sherlock says. "Even my brother looks like he has such a name as Mycroft."

"Yeah, I guess it is a bit strange."

"And do I look like a Sherlock?"

"Yeah, you do."

"Well, maybe that's why I go by Sherlock."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Sherlock isn't my real name."

"No! Really?"

"Well, it is my middle name," Sherlock says. "Well one of my middle names."

"Go on then," I say. "What's your name?"

He lets out a small chuckle before speaking. "William."

"William?" I say, laughing along with him.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"I'm guessing you don't like William?"

"I didn't think I looked like a William."

"You don't at all."

"So what's yours?"

"Hmm?"

"Your full name, what is it?" Sherlock asked.

"What? You don't know it already?" I ask.

"Never looked in to it."

"Molly Elizabeth Hooper."

"You look like a Molly Elizabeth."

I giggle and he chuckles again. This was nice. It was nice just talking to him, especially when it wasn't over what body parts he wanted me to sneak out of the hospital for him, or what corpses he needed to examine. It was nice to just have a normal chat with Sherlock Holmes. I wonder how often he's even capable of having a normal conversation with someone.

"I'm guessing your fiancé doesn't know about Toby yet." Sherlock says when we finally stop laughing.

"No, he doesn't," I say. "I'm sure he'll be fine about it though. I mean, it's my house. If he doesn't like Toby, he can move out."

"Yeah, he better had."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing. Toby will be good for you, good company. Especially when Tom is away. He goes on business trips at least once a month, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," I say. "How can you possibly know? Oh, your Sherlock. Of course you know."

"Hardly a difficult deduction." He smiles, and I couldn't help but smile back.

"Sherlock," I say after another moment of silence. "Did you ever go back? To university, I mean. You've never told me."

"Yes, I did." He tells me.

"And did you graduate?"

"Yes. I am a graduate chemist."

"If you're a graduate chemist, then why do you always have me help with cases? I mean, you could do it yourself, why ask me for help when you don't need it?"

"Would you like me to stop asking?"

"No. No! No, I like helping you. I just don't understand why you want my help."

"Because you are the best," He says. "You are the best at what you do. You are definitely the best pathologist at Bart's, and Bart's is of course the hospital I prefer. You're the best one there and…" He pauses. "And you're my friend, Molly Hooper. You're my friend, and no matter how much of an arse I am to you, I do enjoy working with you."

For a moment I just sit there, staring at him. I don't know why I'm staring at him. A man who I had fancied before, who I had thought didn't give a single thought to me, who manipulated me and used me…he actually cared. Like I count?

"I don't count, Sherlock Holmes," I say. "I've never counted, and you never cared."

"Why would you say that?" He asks, leaning forward in his chair. "You've always counted, Molly Hooper. You've always counted and I've always cared. Never ever think you don't count."

We sit in silence for another few minutes and Sherlock starts to stare at me. I shift awkwardly in the seat as his eyes burn into me. What is he doing? Reading me? After a few more minutes of his awkward stare, I stand up, holding the kitten to my chest. Sherlock stands up as well.

"Well," I say. "I should probably go. Tom will be home any minute."

"Yes." Sherlock says.

We walk to the door and Sherlock opens the door. He walks me down the steps and out the door of the building. We stand face to face outside of 221b, and we just look at each other. I don't know why I haven't left yet. I feel like I haven't said enough.

"Thank you," I break the silence. "For the kitten. That was really nice of you to ask."

"No problem, Molly. Who else would I have given it to? Mycroft?" He laughs. I laugh too.

"I dunno, maybe Greg."

"No, I think you'll take care of Toby just fine."

"Yeah, I've been wanting to get a pet for awhile, I just haven't had the money to adopt one."

"Well, you got Toby for free. You may want to take him to a veterinary office, just in case."

"Yeah, I wouldn't want him to be sick and not get treatment." I say.

"Definitely not." Sherlock says.

"Well thank you very much. Tell John I say thanks as well." I wrap one arm around him as a hug, and he puts his arms around me. No delay this time. I smile as we let go of each other, and after a moment, he smiles too.

"See you soon?" Sherlock asks.

"See you."

"Goodbye, Molly." He says.

"Goodbye, William." My smile grows, as does his, and we both laugh. I hail a cab and get in. As the cab leaves Baker Street, I look back as Sherlock walks back into the building.

**(221b | Third Person POV)**

Sherlock walked into his flat. With every step he took, he heard his footsteps loud in the deafening silence of the flat. He sat down in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. The flat was silent, too silent. He missed John, and wished he would come back. John has Mary now though, he won't be coming back. Sherlock could already tell that there would be months when he wouldn't even see John. What would he do.

There was always Lestrade, of course. He could play board games with Mycroft as well. Then there was Molly. He could always invite Molly over for tea and a chat. This evening was lovely, he thought. It was lovely to just talk to someone, when it wasn't strictly about a case. A lot of his conversations with John were about cases, or John's girlfriends. Well, the latter will probably stop becoming a popular topic since he is getting married.

Sherlock never understood marriage. Going to a church, having a party, and then going on a very short holiday just to live in the same residence as your partner and be _"eternally in love". _Why do people even bother? Many marriages end in divorce, so why bother? And even when they don't there is always death. What were the vows? _Till death do us part?_

Sherlock Holmes will never understand marriage.

Why would John get married? Mary, he sort of understood. It was like they were made for each other. Mary Morstan and John Watson are perfect. What about Molly, though? Why would she get married? Why would she get married to Tom, at least? Sherlock wants her to be happy, but he doesn't believe Tom is right for her. He is just a copy of Sherlock. Why not just wait for Sherlock to come back then?

Sherlock pushed that thought aside.

Sometimes Sherlock does this. When he gets really bored, when he's really alone. He just thinks. And it was dangerous to leave him alone with his thoughts. Bad for brainwork.


	16. Chapter 16

I wake in the morning to Toby sleeping on Tom's pillow. The bed was still made on his side, so Tom never made it home last night. That was strange. I sit up and yawn, stretching my arms. Today was Sunday. I finally had a day off.

Toby yawns, stretching his legs. I smile as the kitten stood up and makes its way to my lap, curling up once again. I let out a small giggle and pet his head. He was adorable. I picked the cat up and held him to my chest as I got out of bed. He yawned again and let out a small meow.

"You must be hungry," I say, walking towards my bedroom door. "I can fix that."

I make my way down the hallway to the kitchen. I set the kitten down at my feet and opened a cupboard, taking out a small plastic bowl and setting it down on the floor. I picked up another one and set it on the ground after filling it with water. A can of cat food sat on the counter, and I pick it up and emptied it into the empty plastic bowl. Toby did not hesitate to devour it all.

I laugh at the small kitten's appetite and pick him up. I already love him.

My phone, which is charging on the counter, vibrates. I place a gentle kiss on Toby's soft head and set him down. When I pick up my phone, I unlock it and read the text message from.

**Work schedule mix up, had to work all night. I'll be home in an hour.**

I let out a sigh, and respond with  
"Okay. –Mollyxx". Tom always has to work late. She locked her phone and set it down. A moment later, my phone vibrated again. I unlock it and read the message.

**Good morning, Miss Hooper. **

** –SH**

I smile at the text from Sherlock and reply.

** Good morning, William.**

** –Mollyxx**

A moment later, he texted back.

**Are you going to call me that from now on?**

** –SH**

** No. Just thought I should irritate you this morning.**

** –Mollyxx**

** How is Toby?**

** –SH**

** He's doing great. Thank you for asking. **

** –Mollyxx**

** Are you working today?**

** –SH**

** No. I've got the day off. **

** –Mollyxx**

** Okay.**

** –SH**

He never texted back after that.

I sighed and set my phone down again. He probably just wanted some body parts or something.

7 months later, Sherlock and I were closer friends. Tom started having to work more and Sherlock had less interesting cases to occupy his time, so we often went out to have coffee. John's wedding was in two months, and I swear it was softening him a bit.

Well, maybe not all that much.

"And he somehow convinced me to take the case," Sherlock told me one day as we drank coffee on a park bench. "Turns out, her husband was having an affair. The only reason they were married is because he found out she was gay and blackmailed her. If he didn't marry her, he would tell her parents and they would disown her or whatever."

"Did she ever tell her parents?" I asked, genuinely interested in the 'most boring' case Sherlock Holmes has ever worked on.

"Yes. Turns out, she was having an affair with a woman and she and her husband had a messy divorce. She told her family, and they stuck with her. She ended up being with the woman she loved."

"Sherlock Holmes: The Matchmaker." I say, laughing.

A month later, I'm in the lab. Sherlock comes in and walks up to me. His smile tells me he is about to ask me for a favor.

"Would you like to have a drink?" Sherlock asks.

I almost drop the test tube I'm holding.

I set the test tube on the table and say, "You want to have a drink with me?"

"Yes." He confirms.

"Sherlock, I'm engaged."

"Yes, I know."

"You don't ask engaged women out for drinks."

"We go for coffee quite often, how is that acceptable and this isn't?" He asks.

I sigh. "Sherlock, we go out for coffee as friends because we're bored. A lot of friends do that."

"Yes, and?"

"And if we went to a pub people might start to talk."

"And?" He clearly doesn't understand my point.

"They may start to think we are seeing each other."

His smile drops. "I need to do a test run though."

"A what?"

"A test run," He repeats. "For John's stag night."

"You want me to have drinks with you as a test run for a stag night?" I ask.

"Yes. We'll have a drink at locations of murders."

"Murder scenes," I say. "Locations of…murders?"

"Mmmm, pubs crawl themed."

"Yeah, but why–why can't you just do Underground stations?"

"Lacks the personal touch," Sherlock says, wrinkling his nose. "We're going to go for a drink in every street where we…"

"…every street where you found a corpse. Delightful!" I finish his sentence for him. "Where do _I _come in?"

"Don't want to get ill. That would ruin it –spoil the mood."

"You're a graduate chemist. Can't you just work it out?"

"I lack the practical experience." He says. He smiled at me.

"Meaning you think I like a drink?" I say, straight-faced.

"Occasionally."

"That I'm a drunk?"

"No. No!" He says quickly.

I hold his gaze sternly. He looked away and blinked a few times.

"You look…well." He finally said.

"I am." I smile slightly.

"How's…" Sherlock stopped, a confused look on his face. He looked to the side, as if searching for the right thing to say.

"…Tom?" He finishes tentatively.

"Not a sociopath." I say. Nice one, pretending you don't remember my fiancé's name.

"Still? Good."

"And we're having quite a lot of sex!" I say, giving him a big smile.

I can tell his brain quit working for a moment at my words. He went completely silent, a weak smile still on his face. He looked between the air and me several times before dropping his smile.

"Okay," He sighs, taking a large folder full of papers out of his coat and dropping it on the table. "I want you to calculate John's ideal intake, and mine, to remain in the sweet spot the whole evening." Well, guess he changed his mind about having a drink with me.

The folder is full of John's medical records and personal documents. I pick up his birth certificate and look at it.

"Light headed good…" Sherlock continues.

He hands me a picture of the Vitruvian Man with John's face glued onto it's face.

"Urinating in wardrobes bad." I say.

"Hmm." He hums.

"Seriously?" I ask, laughing.

"Yes!" Sherlock confirms, laughing along with me.

We were on the park bench again, having coffee. Tom was away again. He's been away a lot. He should just quite his job find a new one. They're over working him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was telling me about the stag night. Apparently, he and John got plastered and played the Rizla Game. God, how I'd love to see that.

"You thought you were the king of England?" I ask, laughing harder.

"I know, I know. Terrible, isn't it?" He says.

"We don't even have a king!"

"I know! What a clueless drunk I am."

"I know." I remembered when he was plastered at my flat three years ago.

"Then, I thought I was John."

"Who were you actually?"

"Myself," He told me. "John wrote Sherlock Holmes and put it on my forehead and I couldn't even guess it!"

"Did John guess his?"

"No, I couldn't even give him proper answers."

"Why not?"

"Because I picked his name from the papers. I have no idea who she is."

"Who was it?"

"Madonna."

"Sherlock! You don't know who Madonna is?" I laugh.

"No." He says.

"My god." I say, my laughter calming down.

"Even worse, a client showed up! She thought she had dated a ghost so we went to her _ghost boyfriend's_ apartment and investigated."

"I'm guessing that didn't go well." I've stopped laughing, but I still have a huge smile on my face.

"It didn't. For one thing, John told the woman I was _'clueing for looks'_."

I hold in my laughter.

"Then, I attempted to make a speech when the landlord attempted to arrest us," He continued. "I'll quote it for you. _"What d'you think you're doing? Don't compromise the integrity of the–" _He stops.

"Then what?" I ask after a moment of silence.

"Then I vomited on the carpet." He said.

I hold my hand to my mouth as an attempt to stop my laughter. It doesn't work though. After a moment, Sherlock starts laughing.

"And then you were arrested?" I ask after I got myself to stop laughing.

"Yeah," Sherlock says. "John and I spent the night in a cell. Lestrade came and got us in the morning."

"How was the hangover?" I ask.

"Worse then it was at your flat."

"Oh, I feel sorry for you then." I take a sip of my coffee, which is starting to get cold, and stand up. "I should be getting back home. Tom is supposed to be back tonight."

"Okay," Sherlock says, standing up as well. "Goodbye Molly."

"Goodbye Sherlock." We smile at each other and turn, going our separate ways.


	17. Chapter 17

**(Saint Bart's Lab | Third-Person POV)**

Molly was in the lab, the brain of a Miss. Helen Louise sat in a large metal bowl she was holding. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had just been to see her. Molly was starting to get worried about the wedding. She knew Sherlock was likely to be the best man. Sherlock was going to have to make a speech then. There would actually be people there, actually listening to him.

_ "Well, what's the worst that could happen?" Lestrade had asked tentatively._

Everything.

Everything could happen. She knew who Sherlock was. He was a complete prick, and would not hesitate to insult anyone. Of course, most of the time he doesn't know he's being an obnoxious asshole, but that didn't change anything. There's no telling what he would say at John's wedding in just one month!

Molly's worrying was interrupted when one of the other doctors, Doctor Grant, came into the lab. She set the metal bowl holding Helen Louise's brain on a table as Doctor Grant approached her.

"Doctor Hooper." He greeted.

"Yes?" She replied.

"There is a man requesting with speak with you," He told her. " He's from the newspapers."

"Why would he want to see me?" Molly asked, frowning slightly.

"No idea. He says it is of importance, so you best hurry. He is waiting at your office."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Molly removed her gloves and tossed them in a trash bin. She then quickly left the lab and made her way to her office. When she arrived, a tall man was waiting for her at the door. She walked up to him.

"Miss Hooper, I presume?" The man said with a Danish accent.

"Yes," Molly confirmed. "And you are…?"

"Magnusson. Charles Augustus Magnusson."

"What do you need, Mr. Magnusson?" Molly asked. She was eager to get back to work.

"I have information on you of uttermost importance." Magnusson stated.

"Mr. Magnuson," Molly said quietly. "I think it is best if we continue this conversation in my office."

Magnusson nodded, and Molly unlocked her office door and walked in, Magnusson following behind. Magnusson immediately sat in her seat behind the tiny desk, which occupied most of the small room. Molly closed the door and sat down on a metal, cushioned chair, which sat in front of the desk.

"Information?" Molly questioned, confused as to what a man she had never met before would know about her.

"Information that could cause you to get into some trouble," Magnusson told her. He reached his right hand across the desk and grabbed Molly's.

"Please, don't–" Molly started, pulling her hand back. Magnusson gripped her hand tighter as he interrupted her.

"I have in my possession video footage of you filling bags of corpse fingers, and even limbs. You then hide the bags in your abnormally large bag that you sometimes bring with you to work, and leave Saint Bartholomew's. Surprising, it seems that people should have noticed by now."

"So?" Molly said, trying to sound as though she were not frightened by his words although her heart rate sped up a tremendous amount.

"If this information were to be made public, you will be suspended from work," Magnusson told her, a smile beginning to creep onto his face. "You could even have your license for your chosen profession revoked. There is also the likely reaction people will have towards your…_collection_."

"I don't have a collection, I don't take the parts for myself," Molly stated immediately after Magnusson cut off. "I took them for someone else, for conducting experiments. _Those_ are the facts, Mr. Magnusson."

"That just makes it sound even worse, Miss Hooper. Besides, facts are for history books. I work in news."

"That sounds like a practiced line," Molly said. "How many people do you do this to?"

"I do enjoy saying it," Magnusson said. "But what does my business with others have to do with you? All you should be worried about is the consequences."

"What are you saying? People believe everything they read in newspapers?" Molly let out a nervous laugh.

"Yes. They do."

"S–so what? If I don't stop, you'll what? Write an article about the creepy pathologist in Saint Bart's Mortuary?"

"Yes. And you'll get suspended, and your pathology license revoked. How many times must we go over this, Miss. Hooper?"

Molly could feel tears beginning to sting her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

"W-what do you want from me?" Molly's voice quivered, but she ignored it.

"Miss Hooper, there are things you can do."

"This is blackmail, Mr. Magnusson."

"This is not blackmail, Miss Hooper. This is…ownership."

"Another practiced line?"

"I have information on you, and therefore I own you."

"You do not own me!" Molly shouted angrily. She had a feeling her shouting would do no good.

"And that's what they all say." Magnusson said.

"What can I do?"

Magnusson brought her hand to his mouth and drug the tip of his tong across the top of it. He frowned and dropped her hand.

"You may want to consider washing your hands after you leave your position," Magnusson said as he stood up and walked to the door. "I can almost taste the dead."

He left the room, the door closing behind him. Molly let a tear slide down her cheek.

Molly hurried through her day, eager to leave work as soon as she could. When the time finally arrived for her to leave, she quickly grabbed a cab. When she arrived at her flat, she ignored any conversation from Tom and got herself a glass of wine. She wasn't in the mood for conversation. She was doing all she could to not have a panic attack, but she feared she might lose herself any time.

She didn't speak to Tom at all. After downing her glass of wine, she locked herself in her room. She needed to be alone with her thoughts. She needed help. She needed to go to someone. Who could she go to?

Sherlock Holmes.

She could go to Sherlock, but when? What could he do to help her? No, she wouldn't. She wouldn't let Magnusson win.


	18. Chapter 18

_**THE SIGN OF THREE SPOILERS**_

* * *

Molly was a wreck for a week. She kept expecting to be suspended from work, but it never happened. She never went to Sherlock, and she almost didn't talk to Tom at all. She started becoming herself again after that week, and nothing happened to her, so she assumed that whatever Magnusson wanted her to do, she was doing it.

Soon enough, it was John and Mary's wedding day.

After the ceremony, Molly and Tom stood inside the venue. Molly was repeatedly kissing Tom's cheek, as a way to apologize for being so silent lately. Even after Molly started to behave like she normally would after Magnusson's visit, she and Tom still hadn't talked much. He always had a reason to get out of the house. Business trips (as usual), shopping, visiting his parents; he was always doing something and Molly never went with him.

A photographer approached them and started taking photographs. Molly brought Tom closer to her and place her cheek against his, smiling wide for the camera. After taking several pictures, the photographer left and took pictures Mrs. Hudson and then moved on to a lonely Lestrade. Molly looked behind her, continuing to smile.

Across the room, Sherlock was standing. He had his eyes locked on Molly and Tom. She gave him a look, and he just stared. Molly turned to walk to him, but the maid of honor walked up to him and started to talk. Molly couldn't tell what they were talking about, but she assumed he was making deductions of the men in the room for her. She looked impressed, and disturbed all at the same time. After Janine left him, he continued to stare at Molly and Tom.

"Um, Tom?" Molly said.

"Yes?" He said.

"I'll be right back." Molly stepped away from him and walked to Sherlock. His eyes followed her as she walked.

"Hello Molly Hooper." Sherlock said, a faint smile on his face.

"Sherlock?" Molly said.

"Hm?" He hummed.

"Why the hell are you staring at me and my fiancée?" Molly crossed her arms over her chest and looked up at him.

"Just…observing."

"Observing what?" Molly demanded.

"How's your engagement, Molly?" Sherlock asked.

"It's fine Sherlock."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! Why would you think…?" Sherlock held up his hand to stop her talking. He looked over to where John and Mary stood. They were looking at the door of the venue, where a scarred, uniformed man had just walked in. John let out a disbelieving laugh and left Mary who was smiling widely.

"It was lovely to see you Molly." Sherlock said, and he walked away from Molly and went to stand with Mary. Molly looked after him.

"Pray silence for the best man." The master of ceremonies said. Sherlock stood up as the man stepped away from the table he, John, Mary, and the bridesmaids sat at.

Sherlock buttoned his jacket. He looked uncomfortable. After all of the guests had stopped clapping, he began to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, and…erm…" Sherlock paused for a moment and looked around the room. "…others."

The room was silent. Sherlock was obviously in deep thought.

"Er…" Sherlock continued. John narrowed his eyes at him. "A-a-also…"

There was another awkward pause, and Molly looked nervously at Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. She remembered all of the worries she had about Sherlock's best man speech. The speech itself, the telegrams; this was sure to be a train wreck, wasn't it?

John closed his eyes and a look of realization came across his face. Molly could just barely make out the words he said quietly. "Telegrams." Mary gave him a look and Sherlock jolted out of his blankness.

"Right, um…" Sherlock patted his pocket, and then saw the telegrams in a pile in front of him. John cleared his throat, and Sherlock cleared his right after. He looked at all of the guests and swallowed hard. "First things first. Telegrams." He showed the cards to everyone. Then he quickly said, "Well, they're not actually telegrams. We just _call _them telegrams. I don't know why. Wedding tradition." He picked up the first card, and then added sarcastically, "because we don't have enough of that already, apparently." John narrowed his eyes at him again.

_Oh god, _Molly thought. _This really _is _going to be a train wreck._

"To Mr. and Mrs. Watson," Sherlock read the first telegram. "So sorry I'm unable to be with you on your special say. Good luck and best wishes, Mike Stamford."

"Ah." Mary and John said in unison.

"Mike." John said.

"To John and Mary, all good wishes for your special day. With love and many big…" He broke off all of a sudden, and then continued slowly. "…big squishy cuddles from Stella and Ted."

John and Mary giggled. Lestrade, who was sitting next to Molly, sniggered and Molly smiled. Maybe this would be more humorous than horrific.

Sherlock read the next card. "Mary – Lots of love…" He stopped and breathed out a silent 'oh'.

"Yeah?" John said.

"…Poppet…" Sherlock finished, loudly sounding the 't'.

John and Mary giggled again.

"Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from CAM," Sherlock read the next card. Mary's smile faded, and she looked almost frightened. "Wish your family could have seen this."

John attempted to comfort Mary, but she smiled reassuringly and Sherlock looked at the next card.

"Um, 'special day'…'very special day'…'love'… 'love'… 'love'… 'love'… 'lo...'; bit of a theme – you get the gist. People are basically _fond_."

Okay, maybe this wasn't going to be that humorous. Sherlock Holmes, can't even read the gushy telegrams. Some guest laugh, and Sherlock looks around the room.

"John Watson." He said, gesturing to John. "My friend, John Watson." He looked down briefly, then at John. "John."

John gave him a smile, basically telling him to get on with it.

Sherlock told everyone how John had asked him to be best man, and his reaction. He then took a stack of cards out of his pocket, looking through them and putting them on the table as he said, "Done that…". He finally looked up at the guests, then at John.

"I'm afraid, John, I can't congratulate you," Sherlock said. Mary looked surprised and John looked up at Sherlock. "All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world."

The guest began to look uncomfortable and started muttering to one another. Molly and Lestrade looked at Sherlock in horror.

_So,_ Molly thought. _It begins._

Sherlock ignored the audience, and continued to speak. "Today we honor the death-watch beetle that is the doom of our society and, in time – one feels certain – our entire species." The guests all stared at him, and Sherlock paused for a moment, realizing that his words were not very good. "But anyway…let's talk about John."

"Please." John said quietly.

"If I burden myself with a little help-mate during my adventures," Sherlock continued. "it is not out of sentiment or caprice – it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me." Greg laughed silently. "Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides."

John heavily sighed and Mary frowned.

"It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel."

The bridesmaid next to Sherlock looked up at him and the other two bridesmaids on the other side of the table looked uncomfortable. Molly hid her face in her hands. Sherlock moved on to another card and began to speak again.

"…and contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation…or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot."

Mary face-palmed and John attempted to hide behind his clasped hands. The guests begin muttering amongst themselves again and Sherlock paused for a moment and continued again.

"The point I'm _trying_ to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meant. I am dismissive of the virtuous…" He looks to a vicar in the audience, then to the bridesmaid sitting next to him. "…unaware of the beautiful…" He turned to Mary and John. "…and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend. Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."

Mary proudly smiled at her new husband, and several guests made appreciative "aww" sounds.

"John, I am a ridiculous man…" John smiled and nodded in agreement at Sherlock's words. "…redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I'm apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion." Sherlock looked down for a moment and smiled. "Actually, now I can."

The guests murmur again, but this time, they are more approving. John and Mary smile.

"Mary," Sherlock continued. "when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss…so sorry again about the last one…so know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved – in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will _never_ let you down, and we have a life time ahead to prove that."

Mrs. Hudson whimpered and held a tissue to her nose. Molly wiped tears from her eyes with her serviette. Other guests sniffle, and John turned to Mary.

"If I try and hug him, stop me." He whispered to her.

"Certainly not." Mary whispered back, patting his arm.

Sherlock moved on to his next card. "Ah, yes. Now on to some funny sotries about John…" Sherlock trailed off as he looked up to see most of the guests crying. "What's wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John?" He said quickly, turning to John.

Molly smiled at him proudly, and Mrs. Hudson tearfully said, "Oh, Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked down at John. "Did I do something wrong?

John stood up. "No, you didn't. Come here." He pulled him into a tight hug. All of the guests applauded.

"I haven't finished yet." Sherlock told John.

"Yeah, I know, I know." John released him as Sherlock held up his next card.

Sherlock talked over the applause. "So, on to some funny stories…"

"Can you – can you wait 'till I sit down?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded and John sat down, clearing his throat.

"So," Sherlock continued. "on to some funny stories about John…" John chuckled and Sherlock looked around at all the crying guests. "If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would be better." The guests all started laughing. Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out his phone as he spoke. "On we go. So, for funny stories one has to look no further than John's blog." He held up the phone and John laughed. "The record of our time together. Of course, he does tend to romanticize things a bit, but then, you know, he's a romantic."

Sherlock then began to list some cases they have had. He settled for one case and told us about it. It was a locked room mystery. A guardsman was in the shower after getting of duty and was found five minutes later stabbed.

"Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty." Sherlock said as his story concluded. "He'd stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach, but there was no weapon. Where did it go? Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: a murderer who can walk through walls, a weapon that can vanish – but in all of this there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?"

All of the guests fidgeted, and were silent as they looked at each other.

"Come on, come on," Sherlock said. "there is actually an element of Q and A to all of this." Sherlock cleared his throats, and the guests remained silent. After a few moments, he looked at Lestrade. "Scotland Yard. Have _you _got a theory?" Lestrade looked up and gave Sherlock a blank look. "Yes, you. You're a detective –broadly speaking. Got a theory?"

"Er, um," Lestrade stammered, thinking. "if the, uh, if the, if-if-if, if the blade was, er, propelled through the, um…" He stopped for a moment, thinking. "…grating in the air vent…maybe a-a ballista or a – or a – or a catapult. Erm, somebody tiny could-could crawl in there." He sucked in a breath. "So, yeah, we're loo… we're looking for a-a-a-a dwarf."

Sherlock stared at him blankly. "Brilliant."

"Really?" Lestrade asked, surprised.

"No." Sherlock said instantly. Lestrade sighed and lowered his head. "Next!"

Tom turned to Molly. "He stabbed himself." He whispered to her, rather loudly.

"Hello?" Sherlock said, having heard Tom. "Who was that?" Tom looked round, wide-eyed. "Tom."

Tom stood up, grimacing as his chair squeaked.

"Got a theory?" Sherlock asked.

Tom swayed nervously from foot to foot before slowly and attentively speaking. "Um… attempted suicide, with a blade made of compacted blood and bone; broke after piercing his abdomen… like a meat… dagger."

A couple of guests sniggered. Molly showed a look of pure disbelief on her face. She reconsidered her marriage options.

Sherlock's expression speaks volumes as well. "A meat dagger." He repeated precisely.

"Yes." Tom confirmed awkwardly.

"Sit. Down." Molly whispered through gritted teeth.

"No." Sherlock told Tom. Tom sat down and Molly attempted to smile off the embarrassment she had for her fiancée.

Sherlock continued to talk about how the one feature of interest in the entire baffling case was John, who saved a life while Sherlock was trying to solve a murder. He then told the guest about the stag night. After he finished talking about the stage night, everyone raised his or her glass for a toast, but Sherlock dropped his. It shattered to the ground and after being given another, he set it on the table, hopped over the table, and began to move round the room. He kept speaking random things, trying to keep the subject on John, but Molly could tell something was wrong.

"Weddings are great! Love a wedding." Sherlock said.

John and Mary talked quietly to one another, looks of confusion on their faces.

"And John's great, too!" Sherlock continued, pointing at John. "Haven't said that enough. Barely scratched the surface. I could go on all night about the depth and complexity of his…jumpers…" John rolled his eyes in disbelief as Sherlock started pacing back and forth along the isle between tables. "…and he can cook. Does… a … thing … thing with peas …" John and Mary exchanged a puzzled look. "…once. Might not be peas. Might not be _him_. But he's got a great singing voice… or somebody does."

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh. His teethe clenched and then he began shouting. "Ah, too many. Too many! Too Many! TOO MANY!" He took a breath. "Sorry. Too many jokes about John! Now, er… Where was I? Ah, yes. Speech!" He points at the table again, grinning at the guests. He clasped his hands together. "Speech. Let's talk about … murder."

John sighs and lowers his head. Mary frowns. Molly looks at him. She is positive something is wrong.

"Sorry, did I say 'murder'?" Sherlock said. "I meant to say 'marriage' – but, you now, they're quite similar procedures when you think about it. The participants tend to know each other, and it's over when one of them's dead." He empathetically sounded out the 'd' at the end of the word.

John sighed and lowered his head again.

"In fairness, murder is a lot quicker, though. Janine!" Sherlock continued. The bridesmaid – Janine – looked over wide-eyed at Sherlock, who was now standing behind one of the male guests. "What about this one? Acceptably hot?" He grinned at Janine and continued. "More importantly, his girlfriend's wearing brand-new uncomfortable underwear … and hasn't bothered to pick this thread off the top of his jacket or point out the grease smudge on the back of his neck. Currently, he's going home alone."

Molly looked behind Sherlock to see that he was typing something into his phone behind his back. Something was _definitely _wrong.

"Also, he's a comics and sci-fi geek," Sherlock continued tell Janine. "They're always tremendously grateful – really put the hours in." He chuckled. "Geoff, the gents." He looked over at Lestrade, and then jerked his head towards the door. "The loos, now, please.

"It's _Greg_." Lestrade corrected.

"The loos, please." Sherlock repeated.

"Why?" Lestrade reached into his pocket to retrieve his mobile as it beeps a text alert.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's your turn." Sherlock grimaced and jerked his head towards the door again.

Lestrade looked at his phone, and Molly looked at it in time to see the text Sherlock had sent him.

_Lock this place down._

"Yeah, actually, now you mention it…" Lestrade stood up and walked out of the reception. Sherlock put his own phone back into his pocket.

"Sherlock," John spoke up. "any chance of a – an end date for this speech? Gotta cut the cake."

Sherlock smiled widely and danced down the isle. _This is just getting freaky._ Molly thought.

"Oh! Ladies and gentlemen," Sherlock said. "can't stand it when _I_ finally get the chance to speak for once, Vatican Cameos."

John straightened up in his chair as he heard the last two words. Molly didn't know what they meant, but she was sure that it was not good. Mary whispered, panicked, to John who calmly whispered back as he put his hand over hers to silence her. Sherlock turned back to the guests.

Sherlock slapped himself hard on the right cheek. "No!" He slapped himself on the left cheek just as hard. He pointed his index fingers on both hands upwards. "No! Not you! Not you!"

He calms down and lowers his hands so that his index fingers are pointing towards John.

"You." Sherlock continued, walking towards him and only pointing with one hand. "It's always you. John Watson, you keep me right."

John stood up. "What do I do?"

Sherlock said something to him quietly so the guests wouldn't hear him. He then drew in a sharp breath through his nose and turned to the guests with a manic grin on his face.

"Sorry. Off-piste a bit. Back now. Phew!" Sherlock clapped his hands together and looked down at the floor. "Let's play a game. "He raised his eyes and lowered his head a bit more. "Let's play Murder."

John sat down again. Sherlock prowled forward as his eyes flickered around the room, staring at each of the guests.

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said disapprovingly.

Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his chin, ignoring Mrs. Hudson. "Imagine someone's going to get murdered at a wedding. Who exactly would you pick?"

"I think _you_'re a popular choice at the moment, dear." Mrs. Hudson informed him.

"If someone could move Mrs. Hudson's glass just slightly out of reach, that would be _lovely_." Sherlock said, gesturing behind him. "More importantly, who could you _only _kill at a wedding? Most people you can kill _any_ old place. As a mental exercise, I've _often_ planned the murder of friends and colleagues." Sherlock rubbed his hands together, like a villain would do, as he continued to pace. He gestured to John. "Now John, I'd poison."

Mary looked nervously at her husband.

"Sloppy eater – dead easy. I've given him chemicals and compounds – that way, he's never even noticed. He missed a whole Wednesday once, didn't have a clue. Lestrade's so easy to kill, it's a _miracle_ no one's succumbed to the temptation. I've got a pair of keys to my brother's house – I could easily break in there and _asphyxiate _him." Sherlock gestured strangling with his hands, then realizes he may have gone to far. "…if, if the whim arose."

Tom turned to Molly and said quietly, "He's pissed, isn't her?"

Molly, without looking round, stabbed the back of Tom's hand with a plastic fork. He cried out in pain and grabs his hand.

After a few minutes of Sherlock rambling, he finally called for a toast and took off, running out of the reception. John kissed Mary and ran out as well. She followed a few seconds later.

Molly wanted more than anything to follow Sherlock. She wanted to find out what was happening. She wanted to help him in anyway that she could. Molly isn't a detective though. She'd just a pathologist, and with John available, Sherlock probably wouldn't even let her help.

She would just have to wait until the party after the reception to speak to him.


	19. Chapter 19

_**THE SIGN OF THREE SPOILERS**_

_**Okay, I just HAD to make molly go after him. I HAD to.**_

* * *

About an hour later, the room where the reception was held had been cleaned up. The tables and chairs had all ben moved out of the way. John and Mary were in the center of the room having their first dance, and Sherlock was at the front of the room playing the violin. Molly could tell John hadn't had much practice with waltzing, but he and Mary still looked like they were having fun.

John moved one hand to Mary's waist and the other to her back. A huge smile came across her face.

"Oh! Really?" She exclaimed excitedly, and he dipped her back. Mary giggles and John chuckles. As the waltz Sherlock is playing ends, John kisses Mary.

The room bursts into applause, and some of the guest even cheer. The bridesmaid – Janine – was standing next to Molly, and was definitely cheering the loudest. Molly couldn't help but be annoyed by her excitement towards Sherlock.

Sherlock turns to his music stand and picks up something. He looks towards Molly's direction and holds it up, revealing that it is a flower. He tosses it, and Molly holds her hands out slightly to catch it. She pulls her hands back to her chest as she realizes who it was meant for. She looked next to her as a smiling Janine caught the flower. Molly tried her best to hold back a disgusted look.

Sherlock stepped up to the microphone after John and Mary had straightened up again. "Ladies and gentlemen," Sherlock said. "just, er, one last thing before the evening begins properly. Apologies for earlier. A crisis arose and was dealt with."

_So, _Molly thought. _Something definitely_ _was wrong._

Sherlock drew in a breath and continued speaking. "More importantly, however, today we saw two people make vows. I've never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again. So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will _always_ be there, _always_, for all three of you."

Sherlock paused momentarily, realizing what he had just said, and the guests all started looking at each other.

"Er, I'm sorry, I mean, I mean two of you. All _two_ of you. _Both_ of you, in fact. I've just miscounted." Sherlock stuttered. John and Mary exchange a worried look. "Anyway, time for dancing. Play the music again, please, thank you." December 1963 (Oh What A Night) by Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons starts to play. Sherlock starts walking off the stage, and over to John and Mary. "Okay, everybody, just dance. Don't be shy! Very good!"

Everyone starts dancing, and Molly looks over to where John, Mary, and Sherlock stand. Sherlock has a serious look on his face, and Mary smiles. John lowers his head, then cuts Sherlock off in the middle of a sentence. Mary's smile turned into a frown, but soon both she and John let out a laugh and smiled. Molly had a feeling that she knew what was being said.

After a few seconds of the three of them just standing there, without speaking, John and Mary went of to dance and Sherlock was left in the middle of the room. He looked around, and spotted Janine. He walked halfway to her, but saw that she already had a dancing partner – the geek from the reception. He looked away, and walked out of the reception, grabbing his coat as he left. Molly looked after him, and then turned to Tom, who she had been dancing with.

"Tom," She said. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Is something wrong?" He asked.

"I just need some air. It's crowded, I'm starting to get claustrophobic."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Molly was already starting to walk off when she said, "No, I'd rather be alone."

When she got out of the door, she sprinted to catch up with Sherlock, who stopped at the sound of her footsteps. "Sherlock?" She said.

"Yes, Molly?" Sherlock asked.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Why are you leaving?" Molly walked around Sherlock, and stood in front of him.

"Bit crowded." He answered her.

"Yes, but that's not it."

"Weddings aren't my thing, Molly. John won't even notice I'm gone."

They both stayed quiet for a moment. Molly was the one to break the silence.

"Dance with me." Molly said.

"Sorry?" Sherlock asked.

"Dance with me."

"Molly–"

"Come on."

"Molly, you're engaged."

"Yes. And?"

"And engaged women should dance with the person whom she is engaged to." Sherlock said.

"No one should leave a wedding without dancing, Sherlock." Molly said.

Sherlock sighed, and held out his hand. Molly smiled and grabbed it, stepping closer to him. He rested a hand on the small of her back, and the other on her waist. Then, they were waltzing, in a garden outside a wedding reception.

"So," Molly said. "What happened?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed.

"You said that a crisis arose. What happened?"

"Oh, John's old commander, Major Sholto, was almost murdered."

"Almost?"

"Delayed stabbing, John gave him medical attention and he was taken to the hospital."

"Oh, do you know who did it?"

"The photographer."

"Did Lestrade arrest him?"

"Yes. Tracked him down after he had left, and arrested him here."

"Good." There was a moment of silence, and Molly spoke again. "So, Mary's pregnant."

"Is she?" Sherlock tried to look as if he didn't know anything.

"'All three of you'. Sherlock, you didn't miscount."

"Okay, maybe she is."

Molly smiled. "That's wonderful!"

"I suppose so."

They went quite for a couple of minutes. They stumbled once, and Molly laughed.

She looked up to Sherlock, and saw a hint of a smile on his face. "I know it's hard to waltz to this music," Molly said. "but at least you're better than John."

Sherlock chuckled. "I'm the one who taught him."

They both seemed to give up on waltzing, so they started to slow dance.

"Seriously?" Molly asked.

"Baker Street, behind closed curtains."

"That must have been funny."

"Apparently. Mrs. Hudson walked in once, started laughing. She sounded like an owl being tortured."

"My god." Molly giggled and Sherlock chuckled again.

Sherlock spun her slowly, and they began to dance again.

"So, how did you learn to dance?" Molly asked him.

"Well, I've always had talent for it." Sherlock said.

"Bluffing?"

"I had a case once which required me to dance with a villain to save a child's life."

"Stop bluffing!"

He looked at the ground, their dance still not ending. "Mother enrolled Mycroft and I in a private school for two years. We were required to learn."

Molly laughed and Sherlock looked back up to her. "Well they taught you well." She said.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "I always thought I was rather good."

Just as John had done to Mary, Sherlock dipped Molly back. She giggled, and he pulled her back up.

"Well," Molly said as Sherlock returned his hands to his sides. "That was lovely."

"I agree." Sherlock said, giving Molly a smile – a real smile as well. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

"Thank _you_," Molly said. She started walking back to the venue, Sherlock looking after her, and then turned round. "To be honest, Tom is rubbish at dancing."

Sherlock laughed, and Molly smiled. She turned round again, and walked back to the venue. Sherlock lifted his coat collar, and walked of as well.


	20. Chapter 20

_**Warning: I leave you hanging at the end, but I will be saying what happened after that in a future chapter, not necessarily the next chapter.**_

* * *

Molly's eyes opened to the darkness of her bedroom and the absence of Tom. _Of course_, She thought, _He's gone to his parent's home without me…again._

Molly was getting sick and tired of Tom leaving her. They'd had their ups and downs, but she _did_ love him and she wanted him to let her come with him. She had met his parents, and they were lovely. They seemed to really like Molly. There was no reason for him to not let her go.

Molly sighed and looked over at her alarm clock. 2:43am. Why was she up so early? She noticed Toby was curled up in Tom's spot. She sat up in her bed, looking around the room for what caused her to wake up. After a few minutes of silence, she lay down again, closing her eyes. A few minutes later, she was drifting off to sleep when she heard footsteps in the hallway. Her heart stopped, and she sat up, listening as the footsteps stopped. She eyed the door, watching as the doorknob slowly turned. After what felt like minutes of just the doorknob turning, the door started to slowly slide open, and she screamed.

"Molly," Sherlock Holmes said. "You may want to keep your voice down. You're neighbors may think you're being killed or something."

Molly swung her feet over the edge of her bed and stood up. She walked over to Sherlock and punched him in the stomach.

"You arse!" She almost shouted. "What the hell are you doing at my flat? It's…" She looked at the alarm clock. "Three in the morning!"

Sherlock held a hand to his stomach; the punch had been harder than he expected it to be. He looked down at Molly, whose cheeks were turning red with anger. "Nice to see you too, Molly."

"What are you doing here?" Molly asked.

"I've got a … visitor at my flat," Sherlock explained. "She um…thinks I'm working, but I really just wanted to get out."

"She?" Molly questioned, raising her eyebrows at him. "Your girlfriend?"

"You assume she is my girlfriend because she is staying at my flat?"

"Yes. Am I wrong?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a few seconds, clearing thinking about whether he should tell Molly the truth or not. "No. Your right."

Molly laughed. "Who is it?"

"Janine." Sherlock said.

Molly kept a smile on her face, although she still felt rather irritated with Janine. She had no idea why she didn't like her. "I'd congratulate you, but don't seem too happy about it."

"Well," Sherlock said. "She's not exactly my girlfriend. Well she is, but…not exactly."

"Let me guess," Molly crossed her arms across her chest. "You're using her?"

"I'm…" Sherlock trailed off, thinking of a way to make himself sound better. "Exploiting the fact of our connection."

"Is that what you'll tell her when she finds out?"

"Possibly…"

Molly shook her head. "Sherlock, you can't do this to her." Molly didn't like Janine, but this was still wrong.

"Why would you care?" Sherlock asked.

"Because that's wrong!" Molly nearly shouted.

"It's not like I'd ever ask her to marry me because I'm using her."

Molly raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock sighed. "If at some point engagement was required for me to succeed in my plan, I may need to ask…"

Molly rolled her eyes. "So, you just wanted to get out, yeah?"

"Yes." Sherlock said. "I need to think, sleep, whatever."

"Why didn't you just tell her to go home, Sherlock?" Molly asked.

Sherlock tried to look offended. "Do you believe I am that rude, Molly?"

Molly thought for a moment. "Yes."

"Shut up." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"Make me." Molly dared.

"Anyways," Sherlock continued. "Do I have permission to stay the night?"

"Just one night, Sherlock." Molly said. "Then go back to your own flat in the morning."

"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock smiled.

"Well," Molly said, sitting back down on her bed. "You know where the spare bedroom is."

"Yes." Sherlock said, staring at her.

Molly waited for a minute before saying, "Bye."

Sherlock nodded and walked out of the room. Molly lay down under her covers and drifted off to sleep again.

In the morning, Molly went into the kitchen to find that Sherlock had already made coffee. She picked up a mug off the counter, which was already filled, and took a sip. Black, two sugars. Molly shook her head and dumped it down the sink.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock asked.

Molly gasped spun around to find that he had been standing behind her. "My god, don't scare me like that!"

"Um…sorry?" Sherlock said, smiling at her.

"You made coffee?" Molly asked.

"Yes. You didn't like it?"

"No."

Sherlock fake pouted and started to walk out of the kitchen area.

"Where are you going?" Molly asked.

"Back to my flat." Sherlock said.

"Bye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Molly."

Sherlock spent the next few nights in Molly's spare bedroom. He usually came around 1:00am, but when Janine tried to do…certain things Sherlock would later delete…he would leave early, saying Lestrade called him in.

After a week, Sherlock came to Molly's flat at around 8:00pm and lay down on her sofa, laying his head on her lap. Molly knew Tom wouldn't appreciate the fact that she let him, but Molly found it calming when the detective lay his head on her lap and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, traveling deep in his mind palace. She never said anything when he did; she knew he wouldn't listen anyway

Molly was thinking, her fingers unconsciously twisted in Sherlock's dark locks. Tom was supposed to get home any day now. He hadn't texted or called her, and she was beginning to feel worried.

"What's wrong Molly?" Sherlock's voiced interrupted her thoughts.

"Oh, um…" Molly stuttered.

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock asked again.

"Nothing, it's just…" Molly trailed off.

"Tom is going to come back ay day now, yes?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Your fiancé has been gone for a week, partners are not usually apart for that long."

"He's at his parents' house."

"And he didn't take you?" Sherlock questioned.

"No." Molly answered, her fingers stopped moving and she stared at the wall.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"No idea." Molly answered flatly, wanting to move on from the subject.

"How's your engagement Molly?"

"Why do you keep asking?"

"You and your fiancé are talking less. You barely mention him."

"We are fine, Sherlock. Please, stop asking."

Things weren't fine. Sherlock was right. She and Tom didn't speak much anymore. She didn't know why. She still loved Tom, they just didn't speak much. It was like everything they once had was just slowly disappearing, and it scared her. She didn't want to think about this, she didn't want to talk about it.

"Get up." Molly said.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Get up." Molly commanded.

Sherlock sat up, and Molly stood up, walking towards the bathroom.

"I'm going to clean up," Molly said. "Then I'm going to sleep.  
"Okay." Sherlock said, laying down again and closing his eyes, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth again.

Molly walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She washed her face, changed into her pyjamas, cleaned her teeth, and then walked out again. Then, she walked into her bedroom, where she found Sherlock sitting on her bed.

"Sherlock?" Molly said.

"Hello Molly." Sherlock said. He lay down on the bed, folding his arms over his chest.

"What happened to the spare bedroom?" Molly asked, stepping into the room.

"Bit small," Sherlock said. "Don't you think?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that your bedroom is bigger and that I need the space."

"I'm not letting you take my bedroom, Sherlock."

"And I never said you had to."

"I am not sharing a bed with you." Molly said, folding her arms across her chest like Sherlock.

"Then sleep in the spare bedroom." Sherlock suggested. "The sofa isn't that bad either."

"Sherlock!"

"Come on, Molly. I need to think about this case."

"The one that you are dating Janine for?"

"Yes." His hands moved to steeple in front of his mouth.

"Why do you need so much space?"

"Helps me think."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Sherlock."

Sherlock patted the space next to him on the bed. "There's room for one more of course."

"My fiancé wouldn't appreciate that."

"He wouldn't appreciate you letting me sleep here either," Sherlock said. "but you still let me."

Molly was silent.

"What about space?" Molly finally said.

"You don't take up that much." Sherlock said.

Molly walked over to the empty side of the bed. "Tom definitely won't appreciate this."

"What's he going to do about it, Molly?"

Molly said nothing. She just climbed into the bed and pulled the sheet over her.

"Exactly." Sherlock said.

"Goodnight. Sherlock." Molly said.

"Goodnight, Molly Hooper." Sherlock said.

Molly turned off the bedside lamp and rolled over, her back to Sherlock. After a few minutes, she fell asleep.

When she woke up in the morning, Sherlock was still asleep, and his arm was around her waist.


	21. Chapter 21

**(Molly's POV)**

I get in the cab and tell the cabbie my address. I was supposed to be on holiday, but my arrangements got messed up. Tom has to leave for a business trip tomorrow, so he couldn't come with me. Excuses. That's all they feel like now. He's hiding something. I just know it.

My phone trills a text alert, and I take it out, staring at the message.

_Your flat. Meet me there._

_ -SH_

I stare at the text. Why does Sherlock want to meet me at my flat? Maybe he's trying to get away from that Janine woman again. Well, since Tom _is_ at home tonight, he can't stay. Tom probably won't like him even standing outside the flat. A few minutes go by and the cab pulls up outside of my flat.

I pay the cabbie and get out. Sherlock is already waiting for me, leaning against a street lamp. I walk up to him. We stare at each other for a few minutes, waiting for the other to say something. I am the one to break the silence.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him.

"Something's wrong." Sherlock says.

"With?"

"Tom."

I wait a moment before I say anything. "Is he – is he okay?"

"Go in." Sherlock says.

"Why?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Just go." Sherlock says.

I open my mouth to say something, but the look of seriousness on his face stops me. I turn and walk into the building, walking up the stairs into my flat. When I open the door, I don't understand what is going on. Then, I see Tom.

I have to remind myself to breathe.

_Deep breathes, Molly._ I think to myself. _One. Two. Three._

On the sofa, _my _sofa, Tom is snogging some blonde woman. They haven't even noticed my entrance. After I calm myself down, and once their snogging seems to be going a bit…further, I cross my arms over my chest again.

"Ahem." I cleared my throat. They didn't hear me. "_Ahem." _This time, it's louder.

Tom's eyes fly open as he quickly pulls back from the woman. The woman turns to look at me and her eyes widen. I can feel tears sting my eyes but I blink them back. I will _not_ cry here.

"Oh my god." The woman said. She looked back at Tom. "Oh my god. What the hell, Tom?!"

"Helen," Tom said. "Let me expla–"

The woman – Helen – looked over to me. "Who the hell are you?" She asked, tears falling from her eyes.

"His fiancé," I tell her.

"You may want to leave, Helen," A baritone voice says behind me. "Molly and Tom are about to have a domestic." Sherlock sets a hand on my shoulder, and I look back at him, blinking more tears from my eyes. "I'll be outside." Sherlock turned and left.

"Get the hell out of my flat." I say to Helen.

Helen looked between Tom and I, and stormed out, tears rolling down her cheeks.

I slam the door behind Helen, and turn to look at Tom who is still seated on the sofa. He stares at me, and I can feel my face turning red.

"How?" I say, quietly. I can barely hear myself.

"Sorry?" Tom says.

"HOW?!" I shout. I take another breath. "How could you to me?"

"Molly," Tom says, starting to stand up. "I–"

"How the HELL could you do this to me?!" I shout. My faces keeps getting hotter.

"Molly–" Tom starts towards me, but when he gets close enough I punch him as hard as I can in the stomach.

"After everything we've been through," I say, slamming my hand into his chest. "HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME." I punch him in the stomach.

Tom stumbles backwards, his hand held to his stomach. I wait a moment for him to straighten up, and when he does, I grab him by the tie and pull him towards the door. I open the door and push him out.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY FLAT!" I shout.

"Molly!" Tom shouts. "Listen to–"

Suddenly, a hand grabs Tom from behind, and turns him round. Tom looked up to see Sherlock, who is frowning down at him.

"Did you not hear her?" Sherlock asked angrily. "She said to get out." And with that, Sherlock pushed him down the stairs. Tom fell, and tumbles a few steps before stopping and standing up. He looked back at Sherlock.

"LEAVE!" Sherlock shouts. Tom turns round quickly and hurries down the steps.

After we hear the main door slam, Sherlock turns to me. He looks into my eyes, reading me. After a few moments, he steps inside and closes the door. I watch him as he walks to the sofa and sits down. He pats the spot next to him, and looks back at me.

I walk over to the sofa and sit beside him. He looks at me for a moment, and then awkwardly puts his arm around my shoulder. I scoot closer to him and wrap an arm around his chest. I finally let tears begin to fall and quiet sobs come from my mouth. Sherlock says nothing, but continues to let me sob into his coat.

After a few minutes, he wraps one side of his coat around my body, and I'm forced to be closer to him, but I don't mind. I feel safe with him. After a few hours of me crying, and neither of us speaking, we both fall asleep on the sofa together.

In the morning, I wake up on the sofa, but Sherlock is gone. His coat is thrown over me like a blanket and I smell coffee. I sit up and look over my shoulder at the kitchen. Sherlock is walking towards me, holding two mugs of coffee. I make room for him on the sofa and he sits next to me. He holds out one of the mugs to me and I take it.

"Thanks." I say, my voice a bit hoarse.

"No problem." He says, just as quietly.

I tuck my legs under me and lay my head on his shoulder. I feel tears stinging my eyes again as I think of Tom. I let the tears fall again, and Sherlock wraps his arm around me once again. I take a sip of my coffee, which still tastes horrid, but I don't mind. It's actually starting to grow on me a bit. I take another sip and close my eyes.

After a few minutes, I set my mug on the coffee table. Sherlock grabs my hand, and stares at it. I look up at his face. He turns his head to me.

"What?" I ask.

Sherlock rubs his thumb over my engagement ring and looks at me again. "I don't think you'll be needing this anymore, Molly."

I wipe a tear off my cheek and nod, standing up from the sofa. I slide the ring off my hand and walk over to the fireplace, which Sherlock must have lit this morning. I stare at the ring for a few minutes, rethinking the past year and a half with Tom. What a mistake I made.

I take the ring off and toss it in the fire.

"Counter." Sherlock says.

I walk into the kitchen and look on the counter. There are a pile of pictures. Some are of Tom. Others are Tom and I. I put the pictures in a stack and carry them to the fireplace. One by one, I throw them in and watch as they turn black and shrivel in the heat of the flames. When I am left empty-handed, I return to the sofa, and lay my head on Sherlock's shoulder again. He turns his head and kisses me on the forehead.

"You deserve better than him, Molly Hooper." He says.

I nod, and wipe tears from my cheeks.

Sherlock stays the rest of the day, and that night. He leaves me in the morning, and returns again later that night and every night for the rest of the week. Janine has been staying at his flat more often, so my flat is becoming a regular bolt hole for him. I don't mind though. Since I walked in on Tom and Helen, I really enjoy the company. Sherlock hasn't seen John for the past month either, and Sherlock has been complaining about it.

Something has been wrong, though. Sherlock has been acting…different. Sometimes he leaves for a few hours during the night. Sometimes, I wake up in the morning and he isn't there.

I'm worried about him.


	22. Chapter 22

**(Third Person POV)**

_"Sherlock," Molly said as she approached him. "Why didn't you just tell me?"_

_ "I thought you'd be angry with me." Sherlock told her._

_ She grabbed his hands. "I _am_ angry. I'm incredibly pissed off."_

_ "Molly–" Sherlock started.._

_ Molly let go of his hands. "What the hell am I doing?"_

_ "Molly, I–"_

_ "Why the hell didn't you just come to me?"_

_ "You would have left me."_

_ "Why would you say that?"_

_ "Because you did last time!" Sherlock shouted._

_ Molly was quiet for a moment before she spoke again. "You think I'd do that to you again?"_

_ "Why not? "Sherlock crossed his arms._

_ "I was young," Molly told him. "I was scared! I didn't know what to do!"_

_ "You could have stayed with me!"_

_ "Do you think I wanted to leave you?" Molly shouted._

_ Sherlock was silent._

_ "Why would I have wanted to?" Molly continued. "You were my only friend, and god, I loved you!"_

_ Molly waited for Sherlock to say something, but he stayed silent._

_ "And you didn't care," Molly was angry, and Sherlock could tell that she couldn't control what she was saying. "You never cared!" She punched him in the stomach. "After all I did for you," Another punch. "And you never said thank you! You were never thankful!" She pushed him back a few feet. "I could have gotten raped, even killed in all the places I dragged you from!"_

_ Sherlock didn't think. He just grabbed her by the lapels of her lab coat and pulled her to him, crushing his lips to hers. Slowly, he moved one hand to her cheek, and the other to the small of her back. After a few seconds, she wrapped her arms around his neck. Time went by, and when their lips finally parted, Sherlock couldn't tell how long it had been._

_ They stared at each other for minutes; Molly looked confused, and Sherlock wasn't showing any emotion._

_ Finally, Sherlock broke the silence. "Who said I never cared?"_

_ Molly stared at him for a few moments before grabbing him by _his_ lapels, and pulling him into another kiss._

"Isaac?" Sherlock woke up from his dream to the sound of a familiar voice. "Isaac Whitney?"

Who was speaking?

Sherlock stilled. Where was he? What happened?

The voice spoke quietly. "Isaac?"

Issac? Who was Isaac?

"Hello, mate." The voice said again.

"Doctor Watson?" A new voice asked. Sherlock guessed that this was Isaac.

Doctor Watson. The name sounded familiar to Sherlock, but he couldn't quite remember who it was.

"Yep." Doctor Watson said.

Sherlock thought. Doctor Watson….Doctor…Watson.

"Where am I?" Isaac asked. Exactly what Sherlock wanted to know.

"The arse end of the universe with the scum of the Earth," Doctor Watson said. "Look at me."

_Well, _Sherlock thought. _Watson sure is a ray of sunshine._

Watson… Jared Watson?

"Have you come for me?" Isaac asked.

Joshua Watson?

"You think I know a lot of people here?" The Doctor asked.

_ Of course. _Sherlock thought.

Sherlock propped himself on one elbow and looked at the Doctor. "Ah, hello John. Didn't expect to see you here," Sherlock lowered his hoodie. "Come for me too?"

Doctor John Watson turned to Sherlock, his eyes going from wide to narrow. "Isaac," He said. "Go outside. Mary is waiting in the carpark."

"Okay." The young, dark skinned boy on a mattress next to John stumbled to his feet. He walked out of the room, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the room – apart from the several other stoned people in the room.

"Been awhile, hasn't it?" Sherlock asked.

John looked angrily at Sherlock. "What the hell?"

Sherlock ignored me. "How's life, John?"

"You…"

"I suppose Mary's doing well." Sherlock sat up completely.

"In a fucking drug den!" John shouted.

Sherlock covered his ears. "For god's sake, John. No need to shout! There are people sleeping in here!"

John stood up and held his hand out to Sherlock. "Come on."

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Take my hand, you dick." John said.

Sherlock took his hand, and John helped him stand up. John started walking towards the nearest, and Sherlock followed.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked.

"Car." John answered.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock," John ignored the man. "What the hell where you thinking, getting back into all of this?"

"I don't know what you're thinking about." Sherlock said.

"It didn't even take long, Sherlock!"

Sherlock pushed the door hard, making it fly off of its hinges and land across the fire escape.

"For God's sakes, John," Sherlock said angrily as he walked through the doorway. "I'm on a case!" He started down the fire escape.

John followed behind him. "A month – that's all it took. One!"

Sherlock jumped over the side of the fire escape and onto a wall. "I'm working!" He jumped down onto a wheelie bin against the wall and then onto another one, which lay on its side. Then, he stepped down onto the ground.

John followed. "Sherlock Holmes in a drug den! How's_ that_ going to look?"

"I'm undercover."

"No you're not!"

"Well I'm not now!" Sherlock shouted, gesticulating angrily.

A car quickly pulled up beside Sherlock and John, the breaks squeaking.

Mary was at the driver's side. "_In," _She ordered sternly. "Both of you. Quickly."

Sherlock got in the back of the car. Isaac Whitney sat next to him. John took the passenger's side.

A man comes running out of the building, cradling his arm. He hurries to the car. "Please. Can I come?" He asks. "I think I've got a broken arm."

"No," Mary said. "Go away."

"No, let him." John said.

"Why?" Mary asked.

John leaned his head out of the window. "Yeah, just get in. It's a sprain."

The man ran round the other side of the car and opened the door.

"Anyone else?" Mary asked, exasperated. "I mean, we're taking everybody home, are we?"

Sherlock sighed and shifted to the centre of the backseat. The man sat next to him.

He looked round at Sherlock. "All right, Shezza?"

"'Shezza'?" John said.

"I _was_ undercover." Sherlock said, exasperated.

"Seriously – 'Shezza', though?" Mary said.

Sherlock sighed again.

"We're not going home," John said. "We're going to Bart's. I'm calling Molly."

Sherlock wiped dirt off of his face with a handkerchief.

"Why?" Mary asked.

John held his mobile to his ear, and looked round at Sherlock. "Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

Molly definitely did not want to be called into work. The _last_ thing she wanted though, was to be called in to test Sherlock Holmes for drugs.

And she was _not_ happy with the results.

She pulled her gloves off of her hands with two loud snaps.

"Well," John said. "Is he clean?"

Molly turned to John. "Clean?"

She walked over to Sherlock, who looked blankly down at her. Without thinking twice, she slapped him as hard as she could across the face. John, Mary, Isaac, and the man looked up at her, surprise shown on all of their faces.

Molly switched hands and slapped Sherlock again, just as hard. She switched hands again and slapped him once more. "How _dare_ you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?" She looked round at John, and then back at Sherlock and continued speaking calmly, but angrily. "And how _dare_ you betray the love of your friends? Say you're sorry!"

Sherlock brought his hand to his face. "Sorry your engagement's over – though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."

"Stop it." Molly said angrily. "Just stop it."

John stormed over to Sherlock and Molly. He looked at Sherlock sternly, but spoke softly. "If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again you could have called, you could have talked to me."

"Oh please do relax," Sherlock told him. "This is all for a case."

"A ca…" John started. "What kind of case would need you doing _this_?"

"I might as well ask you why you've started cycling to work." Sherlock said.

"No," John shook his head. "We're _not_ playing this game." John turned and walked away from Sherlock.

"Quite recently, I'd say," Sherlock said. "You're very determined about it."

"Not interested." John told him.

"_I _am," The man, who's arm was being wrapped by Mary, said. "Ow."

Mary looked up at him. "Oh, sorry. You moved. But it _is_ just a sprain."

"Yeah," He said. "Somebody 'it me."

"Huh?"

The man looked over to John, who was not making eye contact with him. "Eh, just some guy."

"Yeah, probably just an addict," John said. "In need of a fix."

"Yeah," Sherlock said pointedly, looking directly at John. "I think, in a way, it was."

John held Sherlock's eyes for a moment, then looked away.

"Is it his shirt?" The man asked, looking at Sherlock.

"Sorry?" Sherlock looked round at him.

"Well, it's the crease, innit?" The man said, looking at John. "The two creases down the front. It's been recently folded, but it's not new. Must have dressed in a hurry this morning…so _all_ your shirts must be kept like that. But why? Maybe 'cause you cycle to work every morning, shower when you get there, an' dress in the clothes you brought with you."

Sherlock looked at him, impressed. John looked rather annoyed.

"You keep your shirts folded," The man continued. "Ready to pack."

"Not bad." Sherlock said with a slight smile on his face.

"An' I further deduce," The man continued. Sherlock looked round, impression still shown on his face. "You've only started recently, because you've got a bit of chafing."

John looked down at his body.

"No," Sherlock said. "He's _always _walked like that. Remind me –what's your name again?"

"They call me the Wig." He said.

"No they don't." Sherlock said.

"Well they – they call me Wiggy." The man said awkwardly.

"Nope."

The man hesitated, and then looked down. "Bill. Bill Wiggins."

"Nice observational skills…Billy." Sherlock said. His phone trills a text alert and he takes it out of his pocket and looks at the message. "Ah! Finally!"

"'Finally' what?" Molly asked.

"Good news?" Bill asked.

"Oh, _excellent _news – the best!" Sherlock said, looking back up. "There's every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers. The game is on." He put the phone to to his ear. "Excuse me for a second." And with that, he left the room.

"Good news?" Molly asked. "How can that be good news?"

"No idea." John said.

"You don't think he did this on purpose, do you?" Mary asked.

John looked at her. "Why would he?"

"Well," Mary said. "He did say that it was for a case."

"What case would have him do this, Mary?" Molly asked.

"I dunno." Mary shrugged her shoulders.

"Case or not," John said. "This is still bad."

"Of course it is," Molly agreed. "But we still need to listen to him."

"That's kind of hard when he's higher than a kite, Molly." John argued.

"Why don't you call Mycroft?" Molly asked, changing the subject. "He should know."

"Fine," John said. "In a minute."

At that moment, Sherlock walked back into the lab. "I am confident that it will hit the papers!"

"John," Molly said. "Mary, Bill, Isaac. Would you give Sherlock and I a moment of privacy?"

John looked between Sherlock and Molly for a moment, then nodded in Mary's direction. He, Mary, Bill, and Isaac left the lab.

"What do you want, Molly?" Sherlock asked when he was sure John couldn't hear them anymore.

"Why did you go back to this?" Molly asked.

"I told you–" He began.

"No, seriously," Molly said. "Why?"

"It's for a case."

"How could this _possibly_ be for a case?"

"It just is, okay?" Sherlock told her. "Can't you trust me on this?"

"It's hard to trust someone who has been staying at my flat, and leaving to go to some drug den, and not even telling me about what was happening!" Molly said.

"It's none of your business." Sherlock said.

"None of my business?" Molly repeated. "So, it's not my business _now**?"**_

****"No, it's not."

"Then who's business is it?"

"Mine."

"Who is supposed to help you though, Sherlock?" Molly shouted. "John? Because you haven't talked to him in a bloody month, and even back then you me told what was happening to you! I don't want to hear it from your best friend who accidently ran into you in a drug den. Don't you trust that I would help you? Because I always have!"

"Molly," Sherlock said. "Trust me–"

"How can I trust you if you can't trust me?"

"I do trust you."

"Well it doesn't look like it, since you didn't tell me about this!"

"It's just for a case, Molly!"

"For now!" Molly shouted at him.

Sherlock went quiet.

"What about when the case is over, Sherlock?" Molly lowered her voice as she spoke. "You know how hard it is to quit. You won't be able to quit over night just because you started for a case. What is this case about anyway?"

Sherlock stayed quiet for a moment before answering her. "Magnussen."

"Sorry?" Molly said.

"Charles August Magnussen."

Molly's eyes got wider and her heart sped up as she remembered her encounter with the man. "The, um – The bloke from the papers?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, noticing her behavior change. "He's a blackmailer and I'm trying to get his attention."

"Why drugs?" Molly said.

"Because that's an easy weakness, Molly." He told her.

"I think you should go now, Sherlock." Molly said.

"What?" He asked. "Why?"

"Just, go." Molly said.

Sherlock looked at her for a moment, his eyes showing worry. After a few seconds, he turned and left the room.

Molly's heart on beat faster as she thought more about the blackmailer. After a few minutes of standing by herself, she left the lab.


	23. Chapter 23

_**WARNING: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR HIS LAST VOW**_

_**Most of the dialogue belongs to Moftiss, although I did add in my own bits.**_

* * *

Molly had only been home for an hours when there was a knock at the door. Whoever it was, the landlord must have let them in already. Molly stood up from where she sat on the sofa and walked to the door, opening it as soon as she got close enough.

"Hello Molly." Sherlock Holmes said.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Molly rolled her eyes and stepped aside. Sherlock passed through the doorway and Molly closed the door behind him.

"Shall I ask again?" Molly asked. "What do you want?"

"I want to apologize." He said after a moment.

"Mmm." Molly hummed.

"Apologies, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said. "I apologize for being an arse to you. I shouldn't have mentioned your failed engagement."

"I forgive you," Molly told him. "But you still haven't apologized for the worst bit."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Your substance abuse," Molly said. "You haven't apologized for using again."

"Why would I apologize for that?" Sherlock asked. "I've explained myself, it's all for a case."

"It's not just that Sherlock," Molly said. "That is just an excuse. You can't just quit, and you know that. I can't always be there to save you, Sherlock."

"You won't need to be," Sherlock said. "I promise."

Molly was quiet for a moment.

"What's that?" She asked, pointing to a bump in Sherlock's coat pocket.

Sherlock reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small box. "This?"

"Yeah," Molly said. "Is that an engagement ring?"

"Indeed it is." Sherlock said.

"Are you _seriously_ proposing to Janine?"

"I have to."

"Let me guess, _for a case_?" Molly said.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "The same case in fact."

"I don't understand why you couldn't just fake it."

"Lacks the real feeling."

Molly rolled her eyes.

"Molly," Sherlock said. Molly looked up at Sherlock, who had moved to stand directly in front of her. "I apologize."

"Why apologize?" Molly asked.

"Sorry?"

"Exactly," Molly said. "Why didn't you just say sorry?"

"Sorry," Sherlock said. "is mostly used wrong in today's language. The real definition of 'sorry' is a pitiful state or condition, or it can be used to express sympathy for someone else's misfortune. You can feel sorry for someone, but if you apologize by saying 'I am sorry' then you are apologizing incorrectly. Apologizing, however, is expressing your regrets over something _you_ have done to the person being apologized to. If someone says they are sorry for what they did, they can't mean it. If they say they apologize, they truly mean it. _I_ truly mean it. Molly Hooper, I apologize for being an arse to you and for my substance abuse. Please, forgive me."

Molly looked blankly at him, having zoned out during his explanation. "Okay then," She said. "Now, I think it would be best if you left, Sherlock."

"Molly." Sherlock said.

"What?"

"What more do I need to say?"

"You don't need to say anything, Sherlock," Molly said. "I forgive you."

"No you don't," Sherlock said. "That's hardly a difficult deduction."

"Sherlock." Molly said.

"Please, forgive me."

Molly sighed. "I forgive you."

"Promise?" Sherlock asked.

"Promise."

"Okay," Sherlock said, walking towards the door. "I will be on my way then."

"What?" Sherlock turned at Molly's voice. "That's it? All you came to do is apologize to me?"

"I barely had time to do this, Molly." Sherlock said.

"You aren't going to say anything else?"

Sherlock walked over to Molly again. "Molly Hooper," He said. "I'll see you tonight. We can talk then."

"I thought this was it," Molly said. "You are proposing to Janine, then she'll be out of your life."

"Well," Sherlock said. "I won't break the news that our entire relationship was a lie to get into her boss's office. I thought if I wait awhile, it might lessen the heartbreak. That's the least I can do for her in this situation."

Molly rolled her eyes again. "Yes, of course."

Sherlock looked at Molly for a minute before giving her a smile. Molly couldn't help but smile back. Sherlock took a small step forward, and bent down slightly to place a kiss on her right cheek. Molly closed her eyes as Sherlock straightened back up.

"Tonight?" Sherlock asked.

Molly gave a small nod, and Sherlock walked out of the flat.

* * *

"What–what–what would your husband think, eh?" Sherlock could here the voice of an anxious Charles August Magnusson as he walked through his private penthouse flat. He walked to a door, which was partially open. "He … your lovely husband, upright, honourable."

Sherlock approached the door, and looked through it where he could see Magnusson on his knees with his hands behind his head, cowering. A woman dressed entirely in black held him at gunpoint.

" … So, English," Magnusson continued, unaware of Sherlock's prescence behind the door. "What–what would he say to you now?" The woman pointing the gun pulled it back and cocked it, then pointed it back at him. Magnusson whimpered. "Nej, nej!"

Sherlock slowly pushed the door opened as Magnusson continued to speak.

"You're–you're doing this to protect him from the truth …" Magnusson continued tearfully. "but is this protection he would want?"

Sherlock knew who the gun holder was. Claire de la Lune. It was funny, he thought, how you could know who is at the scene just by smelling their perfume.

"Additionally," Sherlock began. "If you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume … Lady Smallwood."

Magnusson looked up. "Sorry. Who?" He turned his gaze from Sherlock to the woman. "That's … not … Lady Smallwood, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock frowned.

The woman in black slowly turned towards Sherlock. He soon found himself looking at the face of Mary Elizabeth Watson. Sherlock drew in a breath.

Mary was the first to speak. "Is John with you?"

"He's, um." Sherlock said shakily.

"Is John here?" Mary asked firmly.

"He's–he's downstairs." Sherlock answered.

Mary nodded.

"So," Magnusson said softly. "What do you so now? Kill us both?"

Mary smiled humourlessly over her shoulder at Magnusson while keeping her gun aimed directly in front of her at Sherlock. Magnusson slowly lowered his hands and reached them to the floor on his left.

"Mary," Sherlock said cautiously. "Whatever he's got on you, let me help." He shifted his weight to one foot as he prepared to take a step towards Mary.

"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you." Mary said, exasperated.

Sherlock shook his head, a small smile on his face. "No, Mrs Watson," He said gently. "You won't."

He lifted a foot off of the floor, and Mary immediately pulled the trigger. The bullet impacted his body. Shock went across Sherlock's face as he looked down at the hole in his lower chest, slightly to the right of the shirt buttons. Blood started to come out of the hole.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mary said, slightly tearful. "Truly am."

Sherlock looked back up at her. "Mary?" He said quietly.

* * *

_"It's not like it is in the movies," Sherlock heard the familiar voice from behind him. "There's not a great big spurt of blood and you go flying backwards." The voice, he discovered, belonged to Molly Hooper. She wore her white lab coat, and she had a smile on her face._

_ She walked around him, and suddenly, Magnusson's office turned bright white._

_Molly's face showed a more serious look as she spoke this time. "The impact isn't spread over wide area."_

_ Molly and Sherlock were now in a white-walled mortuary, and there was a single table in the centre. Molly walked over to the table where a body covered in a white sheet lay. There was an identity tag tied to the corpse's toe._

_ "It's tightly focused so there's little or no energy transfer," Molly continued as she pulled back the white sheet. Sherlock's bare body lay on the table. He began to feel less hope that he would survive, which is why he needed Molly; smart, beautiful Molly. If anybody could save him from this, she could._

_ Molly continued to speak to Sherlock, who could feel himself become less conscious by the second. "You stay still…" She pulled the sheet off of his waist to reveal the bullet wound. "…and the bullet pushes through. You're almost certainly going to die, so we need to focus."_

_ Molly slapped him hard, and his eyes sprung open and he inhaled a huge breath as his head turned to the side with her blow._

_ He's back in Magnusson's office. Mary and Magnusson are frozen, and Sherlock stands in the place where he was shot. Molly appears in front of him._

_ "…Focus." She said as she slaps him hard again, and his head turns round with the force._

_ They are back in the mortuary. In front of Sherlock was the table, which held his own corpse, the sheet covering up to its waist. Molly walked up to the table and lay her hands on the edge, leaning over the table to look at the standing version of Sherlock._

_ "It's well and clever having a mind palace," Molly told him. "But you've only got three seconds left of consciousness left to use it. So come on, what's going to kill you?"_

_ Sherlock looked down at his corpse, then looked back up to Mary. "Blood loss."_

_ Exactly," Molly said, her voice intense. "So, it's all about one thing now: Forwards or backwards?" Sherlock closes his eyes momentarily, and when he opens them again, he is back in Magnusson's office. "We need to decide which way you're going to fall."_

_ "One hole," An annoyingly familiar voice said from behind Sherlock. "Or two?"_

_ Sherlock frowned and turned to look over his shoulder at Phillip Anderson, and wondered why he was even in his Mind Palace. "Sorry?" Anderson raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner._

_ "… Is the bullet still inside you?" Molly asked. Sherlock turned back to the voice, and saw Molly standing right in front of him. "Or is there and exit wound? It could depend on the gun."_

_ Sherlock turned his head to the left, and he sees a diagram of different guns. He focuses on one, a Cat-0208._

_ "That one, I think." Sherlock said. He looks across to another one, then quickly moves to another gun. "Or that one." He frowns, and moved to another gun. He began to move on to another gun, when he heard a voice behind him._

_ "Oh for God's sakes, Sherlock," Sherlock's brother said. Sherlock turned his head to the right and saw Mycroft sitting in his desk. "It doesn't matter about the gun. Don't be stupid." Sherlock turned and walked toward Mycroft, who leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "You always were so stupid."_

_ Sherlock is suddenly a young boy again, and he continues to walk towards his older brother._

_ "Such a disappointment." Mycroft says._

_ "I'm not stupid." Young Sherlock said angrily._

_ "You're a very stupid little boy," Mycroft said sternly as he stood up and walked around his desk and leans back on the front of it. "Mummy and Daddy are very cross because it doesn't matter about the gun."_

_ "Why not?" Child Sherlock asked Mycroft, frowning._

_ "You saw the whole room when you entered it," Mycroft told him. "What was directly behind you when you were murdered?"_

_ "I've not been murdered yet." Sherlock said._

_ "Balance of probability, little brother." Mycroft said, grinning._

_ Sherlock was an adult again. He turned round and was in Magnusson's office again, in the place where he was shot. He turned round to the wall behind him, which had a row of panelled mirrors. He walked closer and looked into the mirror._

_ "If the bullet had passed through you," Mycroft said as he walked closer to Sherlock. "What would you have heard?"_

_ "The mirror shattering." Sherlock answered._

_ "You didn't. Therefore…?" Mycroft questioned._

_ "The bullet's still inside me." Sherlock walked back to his original spot. He turned his head to the next voice that spoke._

_ "So," Anderson, who was behind Sherlock again, said to Molly. "We need to take him down backwards."_

_ "I agree. Sherlock…" Molly said. She was standing in front of Sherlock again. Sherlock turned his attention to Molly. "… you need to fall on your back."_

_ Anderson had begun walking round the right side of Sherlock. "Right now, the bullet is the cork in the bottle."_

_ Molly had begun to walk round the left side of Sherlock. "The bullet itself is blocking most of the blood flow."_

_ Anderson came to a halt in front of Sherlock. "But any pressure or impact on the entrance wound could dislodge it."_

_ "Plus, on your back, gravity's working for us." Molly stood directly behind Sherlock now, as if she and Sherlock were about to do a trust fall. "Fall now." She said firmly._

Sherlock half closed his eyes, and began to fall back. He seemed to be going in slow motion as he fell backwards to where his pathologist had been standing. Molly was gone now. It was just Sherlock, a kneeling Magnusson, and Mary, who had her gun pointed at the blackmailer.

Before his body hit the floor, he began to panic.

_ His eyes were closed, and he was moving backwards. He could here a loud alarm, and he covered his ears. He backed into something, and he lowered his hands and looked next to him. He had rand into a wall of body cabinets, like you would find in a mortuary._

_ "What the hell is that?" He asked. "What's happening?" He looked down as one of the cabinets slid open. Sherlock's body lay on it. Sherlock stared down at his corpse in horror. All he felt was fright; he was scared, and he didn't know what to do._

_ "You're going into shock," Molly Hooper said. She had appeared on the other side of the tray that Sherlock's body lay on. She looked across at him. "It's the next thing that's going to kill you."_

_ "What do I do?" Sherlock asked._

_ "Don't go into shock, obviously." Mycroft appeared in Molly's spot. Sherlock, still wide-eyed and terrified, looked up to his brother. "Must be _something_ in this ridiculous memory palace that can calm you down."_

Calm you down. _The words echoed._

_ "Find it." Mycroft said._

_ Sherlock closes his eyes, and then he's running down a staircase._

_ "There's an East wind coming, Sherlock," Sherlock heard his brother say. "It's coming to get you."_

_ Sherlock's own voice echoed through his head as he ran down corridors in his Mind Palace. "It's coming to get you."_

_ Sherlock opened a door in front of him, and Mary stood before him. She wore her wedding dress, and a white veil covered her face. She had a pistol in hand, and it was aimed at Sherlock as she fired a bullet into him again._

_ Sherlock screamed, and he could feel his real body still falling backwards._

Find it_. Sherlock heard his brother's voice._

_ He ran from the door, and ran down the hallway. He found a set of double doors and pulled them open. Light flooded the corridor, and he stared down it. Molly stood in the centre of the corridor, smiling at him._

_ Sherlock smiled, and ran to her, almost shouting her name as he ran. She stayed put and hugged him when he reached her. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Molly, and tried to feel safe again. He tried to calm down. Molly pulled away._

_ She frowned up at him, and tears began to fill her eyes. "It's not working, is it?"_

_ "Molly." Sherlock said._

_ Molly took a small step towards him. She stared up at him for a moment, and then grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled him down, and gently pressed her lips to his. Sherlock responded quickly, and kissed her back gently. He moved one hand to her waist, and the other to the small of her back. Molly moved her hands into his dark curls, and attempted to pull him closer to her._

_ The kiss was distracting, and Sherlock thought of it as a painkiller. It didn't exactly get rid of the shock, but it dulled it; made it almost forgetable. That was good enough for him. He could tell that it was only temporary, so he did his best to not think about the pain of being shot. He focused on Molly, and her lips on his. He thought of the sensation it gave him, and the excitement he felt. Sherlock had no idea how long he and Molly kissed, but it felt infinite._

_ She was the one to pull away, and she looked back up at him. "It's still not enough, is it?"_

_ Sherlock couldn't say anything. He just stared at her, and began to feel the shock of the situation come back._

_ "Redbeard." Molly said._

_ Sherlock turned slowly, and across the corridor, an Irish setter lay on the floor. Sherlock felt a huge smile come across his face and he got on his knees and patted his lap._

_ "Redbeard!" He said. "Come here boy!"_

_ The dog stood up and began trotting towards Sherlock._

_ Suddenly, Molly disappeared, and Sherlock was a child again. "Come on boy!"_

_ Then, he was an adult. "Come on Redbeard, come on! Come to me! It's okay! It's alright!"_

_ His child form took over again. "Come on, it's me!"_

_ "Hey boy." Adult Sherlock told his childhood dog as it sat in front of him._

_ Redbeard began to lick his face, and Sherlock was a child again. "Good boy!" Sherlock praised. "Clever boy!"_

_ Redbeard continued to lick his face, as he became an adult again. "Good boy, Redbeard." Sherlock rubbed Redbeard's head. He pet the dog and suddenly, a sadness came over him._

_ Redbeard licked Sherlock's closed eyes._

_ "They're putting me down too…" Sherlock told his pet. "It's no fun, is it?"_

_ Sherlock began to fall back onto the floor of the corridor. When he hit the carpet, he stared blankly at the ceiling._

_ Molly appeared behind him. "Without the shock, you're going to feel the pain." She said, her voice completely serious and focused._

_ Sherlock began to convulse. His teeth clenched as he held back screams._

_ "There's a whole ripped through you," Molly continued, looking towards Sherlock seriously. "Massive internal bleeding."_

_ Sherlock continued to convulse._

_ "You have to control the pain." Molly demanded._

_ Sherlock ran down the stairs again. Molly's voice rang in his head._

_ Control the pain. You _have_ to control the pain._

_ Sherlock reached the bottom of the staircase and opened a door to a padded cell. He ran into the room and closed the door behind him, flattening his body against it. He convulsed and cried out in pain._

_ Control. Control…_

_ "Control! Control. Control." Sherlock's voice quieted each time he said the word. He stood in a small, circular room with a cement floor and padded walls. Sherlock had red circles around his eyes, and he looked across the room._

_ There was a man huddled against the wall on the other side of the cell. He wore a dirty white straitjacket. A metal collar was fastened around his neck, and Sherlock could see that he was chained to the wall by it. Sherlock could not see the man's face, but he knew exactly who it was._

_ "You," Sherlock said. He was breathing heavily as he took a few steps towards the man crouched on the floor. "You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never feel _pain_?"_

_ "You always feel it, Sherlock." Jim Moriarty slowly turned his head away from the padded wall, and toward Sherlock, who stared down at him. Within seconds, Moriarty and gotten up and ran toward Sherlock until he reached the end of the chain. He was inches from Sherlock's face, and he kept running against the restraint. "But you don't have to FEAR it!"_

_ Sherlock doubled over, his hand grabbing the bullet wound and he cried out in agony. Moriarty stared at him mentally; his eyes wide as he watched all of the pain explode from within Sherlock. Sherlock slowly crumpled to the floor, then slumped onto his back._

_ Moriarty continued to stare down at Sherlock as he writhed. "Pain…" He said. "Heartbreak… Loss…" He took a longer pause and whispered, "Death…"_

_ Sherlock cried out and writhed on the floor; tears falling from his eyes and Moriarty continued to stare down at him._

_ Moriarty's whisper was intense. "It's _all_ good." He said. "It's _all_ good."_

_ Sherlock wished for nothing more then for the pain gone._

_ "It's raining." Moriarty sang slowly, sounding completely mental._

_ Sherlock just wanted to see his friends again. John, Greg…Molly._

_ "It's pouring."_

_ He wanted to give Molly one last kiss on the cheek, and apologize again._

_ "Sherlock is boring."_

_ He wanted her to forgive him completely._

_ "I'm laughing."_

_ He wanted her to help him with the pain, like she helped dull it in the corridor._

_ "I'm crying."_

_ The pain was unbearable._

_ "Sherlock…"_

_ And what he wanted more than anything…_

_ "Is dying…"_

_ …Was to be dead._

_ "Come on Sherlock," Moriarty said softly. He was on his knees next to Sherlock, saliva spilling from his mouth and onto the ground in front of him.. "Just _die_, why don't you?"_

_ Sherlock lay on his back, still. He could feel himself drifting into unconsciousness again, except he was sure he wouldn't wake up._

_ "Just one more push," Moriarty dropped to his side and slid himself across the floor so that his face would be close to Sherlock's head. "And off you pop."_

And Sherlock's heart stopped.

_ "Oh," Moriarty said. "You're going to love being dead, Sherlock. No-one _ever_ bothers you…."_

_ The darkness was all Sherlock could see._

_ "Mrs Hudson will cry; and Mummy and Daddy will cry…"_

_ It was as if…_

_ "And The Woman will cry; and John will cry buckets and buckets."_

_ As if nothing had ever existed._

_ "And we can't forget Molly Hooper."_

_ Nothing._

_ "It's them that I worry about the most."_

_ Would anyone really miss him?_

_ "And John's wife." Moriarty blew out a loud breath._

_ Was there any point in even trying to come back?_

_ "You're letting them down Sherlock…"_

_ Maybe there was no reason to try and continue to live._

_ "Both of them."_

_ Nobody could possibly miss him._

_ "John Watson and Molly Hooper are _definitely _in danger."_

_ Or possibly…_

_ Sherlock's eyes opened abruptly. Moriarty slowly turned his head to him. Sherlock convulsed once and then blinked. He lets out a painful sigh. He tried to stand up, but grimaced with the effort._

_ He groaned as he slammed his hand onto the cell floor, forcing himself onto once elbow. He raised his other arm and punched to concrete floor savagely with all of the strength he could manage._

_ Moriarty was kneeled by him, and looked irritated. "Oh," He said tetchily. "You're not getting better, are you?"_

_ Sherlock pulled himself to his feet and staggered, slumping against the wall and looking at the insane Moriarty._

_ "Was it something I said, huh?" Moriarty asked. He smiled at Sherlock, but the smile faded as Sherlock glared at him. Sherlock was breathing heavily and was covered in sweat._

_ Sherlock pushed himself off the wall and pushed open the door next to him. "Molly!" He said frantically._

_ Moriarty stared at Sherlock as he ran out. His eyes were wide and his voice was full of panic and anger as he screamed. "SHERLOCK!"_

_ Outside the cell, Sherlock staggers quickly to the stare case and falls at the bottom, grabbing onto the banister. He grips it and pulls himself up. He grimaced, and his face filled with agony as he hauled himself up the stairs, letting out a grunt every time his arms swung to meet the banister. He cried out with the painful effort._

_ He was going to do it. He was going to live._

_ "Molly!" He cried out. "John!"_

_ He screamed out in pain, and he could feel tears falling from his eyes. The pain was agonizing, but he couldn't give up. It was just a staircase. A staircase would _not_ be the end of him._

_ He grabbed onto the banister with both hands, pulling his entire body upwards._

_ "Come on!" He screamed._

_ "Sherlock!" He looked up, and saw Molly Hooper standing at the top of the steps. "Come on! Please!"_

_ "Molly!" Sherlock cried out._

_ "Come on!" Molly stood still, waiting for him. "You're almost there!"_

_ Sherlock was only a few steps from the top. He was almost there._

_ He grabbed the banister, and attempted to pull himself to his feet, but his hands slipped and he fell. He let out an agonized cry, and grabbed onto the banister again. He began to haul himself up the steps again. Just the few pulls it took him to reach the top seemed to be endless. Each pull resulted in an explosion of pain and he grunted, grimaced, screamed, and cried out with each pull._

_ But he made it to the top._

* * *

His eyes opened to surgeons in an operating theatre.


	24. Chapter 24

**_Molly comes in at the end, and all of their dialogue is mine. The rest, with Mary and Janine, belong to Moftiss._**

* * *

"You don't tell him," A voice said.

Sherlock opened his eyes with much difficulty.

"Sherlock." Her voice said in a singsong manner.

Sherlock looked up. A blurry figure stood beside Sherlock's hospital bed, but he knew whom it was.

"You don't tell John." Mary Watson leaned over him. "Look at me – and tell me you're not gonna tell him." Her whispering was intense; her voice soft, and serious.

Sherlock's vision went even burrier, and he fell unconscious again.

Sherlock awakes to rustling newspaper, and someone is holding up the front page of _Daily Express._ The main headline reads _"SHAG-A-LOT-HOLMES"_. The person holding the newspaper puts it down and replaces it with _The Daily Mirror_. It's headline reads _"7 TIMES A NIGHT IN BAKER STREET_". That one is put down and is replaced with an inside sheet. The headline on that paper reads, "He Made Me Wear the Hat". There was a photograph in the paper of a smiling Janine wearing a deerstalker.

"I'm buying a cottage," Janine says, putting the newspaper down. "I made a lot of money out of you, mister." She sits at the end of his bed, and smiles at him.

"You didn't give these stores to Magnusson," Sherlock said tiredly. "Did you?"

"God no – one of his rivals. He was spittin'!"

Sherlock grunted, and gave her a little smile.

Janine's smile turned into a frown, and she narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes, you are a back-stabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard."

Sherlock pressed a button on a remote which lay on his bed, and it began to rise his bed and push him into a seated position. "And you as it turns out are a grasping opportunistic, publicity hungry, tabloid whore."

Janine smiled again. "So we're good then?"

"Yeah, of course," Sherlock smiled. "Where's the cottage?"

"Sussex Downs."

"Hmm, nice."

"It's gorgeous. There's beehives, but I'm getting rid of those."

Sherlock tried to push himself into a seated position, but as he did an intolerable pain hit him and he gasped.

"Aw," Janine said. "Hurts, does it? Probably wanna restart your morphine. I might have fiddled with the taps."

Sherlock grimaced as he reached over to a machine next to his bed and pressed a few buttons, giving himself the almost maximum dose of morphine. "_How_ much more revenge are you going to need?"

"Just the occasional top-up," Janine said. She looked around the room. "Dream come true for you, this place. They actually attach the drugs to you!"

"Not good for working."

"You won't be working for awhile, Sherl. You lied to me. You lied and lied."

Sherlock tried not to make eye contact with Janine, and turned his head slightly to the side. "I exploited the fact of our connection."

She let out a disbelieving laugh. "_When_?! Just once would have been nice."

"Oh," Sherlock went shifty-eyed. "I was waiting until we got married."

"That was never going to happen!"

He looked away.

Janine sighed and stood up, walking over to Sherlock. "Got to go." She place a kiss on his forehead, and quickly wiped the lipstick from his skin with her thumb. "I'm not supposed to keep you talking. And also, I have an interview with _The One Show_ and I haven't made it up yet."

Sherlock looked up to the ceiling and let out a soft sigh.

Janine turned and began to walk out of the room, but stopped at the doorway and turned to Sherlock. "Just one more thing. You shouldn't have lied to me. I know what kind of man you are… but we could have been friends." With that she turned and headed out the door again. "I'll give your love to John and Mary."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and lay for a few minutes. Mary Watson…he should have known. She knew the skip code, her memory; he shouldn't have thought she was just another woman in John's life. Sherlock could never understand why people got married.

After a few minutes of thinking, the door opened and a person – a woman's – footsteps came into the room. Sherlock opened his eyes to see Molly standing at the end of his bed.

"You're awake." She said, giving him a small smile.

He reached over to the machine quickly and turned down his morphine dosage, grunting as he did.

Molly winced at his pain, and sat down on the edge of his bed. "Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

"You've just been shot. If you need a higher dosage of morphine, turn it up."

Sherlock frowned. "Not good for working. Not good for thinking."

Molly cocked her head at him. "But it helps, and you won't be working for awhile. You should be resting."

"Something specific you want?"

Molly ignored him, and picked up the newspaper that said "_He Made Me Wear the Hat"_.

She let out a small laugh. "Have you read these yet?"

"No," Sherlock said. "Are they bad?"

"Funny actually," She cleared her throat softly, then began to read from the paper. "'Sherlock Holmes's fiancé has blasted the private eye after discovering that he was just using her for sex. 'He'd proposed to me but his heart is as cold as any diamond ring,' Janine Hawkings cried.

"''All he wanted was my body. And I know some people thought he'd been having an affair with John Watson," she continued, 'but I can tell you that's definitely not true. Sherlock Holmes is as red-blooded as they come. He broke my heart, but the sex was mind-blowing.'" Molly started laughing as she said the last bit.

Sherlock frowned. "You have got to be kidding."

"Nope," She laughed. "I'd take that last bit as a compliment if I were you."

"It's not even true, though." Sherlock said.

"Oh," Molly stopped laughing. "Of course not."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, but than grimace and gasped as he tried to sit up straighter.

"Sherlock," Molly said. "If you need a better dosage, then turn it up."

"I'm fine."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed and grunted as he turned up his dosage.

"Sherlock," Molly said, frowning. "I need to tell you something."

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, his tone serious as he turned his head to Molly.

"Awhile back, Magnusson threatened me."

"He what?"

"He came by Bart's and asked to speak with me. He had videos and photographs that could get me fired and could get my pathology license revoked."

Sherlock frowned, and his voice was serious. "Molly, why the hell didn't you come to me before?"

"I didn't know what to do."

"You should have come to me!"

"You're right," Molly sighed. "I should have, but it's too late now."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then he spoke. "It'll be okay. I'm going to stop him, Molly."

"Thank you," Molly stood and walked over to him. She placed a kiss on his cheek. "I'll try to visit again tomorrow. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Molly."

Molly turned and began to walk out of the room. "Get some rest, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled after her. "Will do."


	25. Chapter 25

Soon after Molly left, Sherlock fell asleep again. Normally, he wouldn't sleep this often, but the morphine did make him feel tired, and caused him to think all sorts of rubbish. As John had once pointed out, he sounded like he was just babbling. He preferred to sleep so he wouldn't have to listen to his own thoughts.

When he awoke, he could feel someone's eyes on him. He blinked his eyes open.

A smooth, voice spoke. "Ah. You're awake."

He turned his head to his right, seeing the source of the voice, who sat in a hospital chair at his bedside.

"Woman." He said.

"Mr Holmes," Irene Adler said, giving Sherlock a grin. "It's been quite awhile since we last met, hasn't it?"

"Mm." Sherlock hummed.

"I visited you yesterday," Irene said, crossing her legs. "You were sleeping. I did leave you a rose, though." She turned her head to the counter top, where a single red rose stood in a clear vase.

Sherlock turned his head to the rose. "I noticed."

"I assume it would be incredibly rude of me to suggest having dinner, considering your current state." Irene said.

Sherlock looked back at Irene. "Of course."

"That's alright. I don't feed the injured anyway." The Woman smiled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What are you _really_ doing here, Miss Adler?"

"I've heard that there was a threat to you," Irene said. "Seeing you now, I suppose my sources were correct."

"Your sources?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I have people watching over London," Irene informed Sherlock. "Mycroft send me a message, informing me of your accident."

"Of course." Sherlock said. "I never believed that he thought you were dead."

"I hate to tell you this, Mr Holmes, but he is very clever. Cleverer than you."

Sherlock sighed.

"That's not it, though," Irene said. "One of my sources said there was someone else imposing a threat to you and London."

"You do realize that being specific _does_ help, yes?" Sherlock said, his voice urging her to get on to the point.

"There has been activity surrounding the case of Jim Moriarty." Irene said.

Sherlock frowned. "Moriarty is dead, and I spent two years dismantling his network."

Irene frowned as well. "Someone is reorganizing his network and continuing his work. I don't know who, although I do plan to find out."

"Any idea of their plans?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Irene said. "They are good at covering their tracks and hiding."

Irene took her mobile out of her handbag, which had been sitting in her lap. She clicked it on and slid her finger across the screen, unlocking it.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked.

"I've got to go," Irene said, uncrossing her legs and standing from the chair. "I'm meeting up with someone, can't afford to miss it. Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

And with that, she left.

Sherlock turned down his morphine dosage, grunting. He gave himself a moment to adjust to the level of pain, and then closed his eyes. With hands steepled in front of his mouth, he entered his mind palace. Mary was waiting for him, and he circled her. He brought up memories of her, anything that may give him clues as to why she was going to murder Magnusson. His mind, for once, was not much help.

He had to interrogate her.

With great caution, he unhooked himself from all of the medical machines, and slowly got out of his bed. He winced at the pain in his abdomen, and staggered over to the window. He slid it open, and wind began blowing the curtains. He shivered at the temperature change, and took a deep breath.

They _really_ needed better security in this building.

He took a step closer, and threw his right leg over the edge of the windowsill, grabbing on to the sides of the window with his hands. He threw is left leg over the sill, and took another deep breath.

* * *

Molly was called into work that night. A child's corpse was waiting for her in the morgue. He wasn't murdered, she discovered. He had had an asthma attack in his sleep, and did not survive it.

After she had finished the autopsy, she washed her hands and went to the break room. She made herself coffee and sat down. About a minute after she sat down, DI Greg Lestrade came into the break room.

"Hello Greg!" Molly greeted him with a smile.

"Molly." Lestrade said, his voice urgent.

Molly frowned. "What's wrong?"

"It's Sherlock." Lestrade told her, taking a seat in front of her.

"What's happened to him?" She had a bad feeling.

"He's gone missing."

"What?!"

"He escaped through his window." Lestrade ran a hand over his head.

Molly put her hand to her face. "Do they not have _any_ kind of security?"

"Apparently not," Lestrade said. "But I need your help, Molly."

She removed her hand from her head. "Anything."

"Do you know of any of his bolt holes?" Lestrade asked. "Anywhere that he might go so that no one finds him."

Molly thought for a moment. "Spare bedroom. Well, my bedroom." Molly let out a small smile at the memories of Sherlock sleeping at her flat. "We agreed he needs the space." She decided that it would be best to not smile, so she raised her coffee cup to her mouth, taking a sip as she looked away from the DI.


	26. Chapter 26

"Sherlock, that was incredibly stupid of you," Sherlock awoke to Molly's voice. "Jumping out the window."

Sherlock opened his eyes. Molly sat on the edge of his hospital bed.

He gave her smile. "Define 'incredibly stupid'."

Molly rolled her eyes, a smile escaping her lips as he grinned at her. "Jumping out a window and hiding in London. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Actually, I _climbed_ out the window." Sherlock said.

Molly shook her head. "My point still stands. Why did you do it?"

Sherlock winced as he moved to turn his morphine dose up. "I had to speak to someone."

"Who?"

"A woman."

Molly raised her eyebrows. "Janine?"

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "We are completely through. I was talking to the woman who shot me."

Molly frowned. "So, a woman shoots you and while the hospital you think, 'You know what a _fantastic_ idea is? I should go talk to my shooter! It'll be great!' and then you just climb out the window and have a meeting with her? Sherlock, I understand that she failed to kill you, but what if she would have succeeded the second time?"

"She wasn't trying to kill me," Sherlock defended. "She was trying to kill Magnusson. The shot was to incapacitate me while she made a quick escape before the ambulance arrived. She phoned the ambulance, making sure it could get to me in time. She saved me life."

"She shot you."

"Mixed messaged. I assure you we are fine now."

"So," Molly said. "She must be someone you know. Who was it?"

"Just Mary." Sherlock said, looking down at his hands.

Molly heard herself gasp. "Mary? Mary Watson?"

"Yep."

"Oh my god," Molly said. "Does John know?"

"Yes," Sherlock told her. "We both had a meeting with Mary. John's angrier then I am. I told him we could trust her, but he is being a little overdramatic."

Molly laughed in disbelief. "Sherlock, she shot you! You should be angry!"

"Well," Sherlock said, frowning. "I am not, so neither you nor John should be angry. If I can forgive her, you can too."

They sat in silence for a moment, Molly looking down at her hands, which were placed in her lap, and Sherlock looking out the window.

Finally, Molly broke the silence. "When do you get out of here?"

"One week," Sherlock said. "Doctor's suggested I take two weeks off from working after that. I see that as highly unlikely."

"What will you do then?" Molly asked.

Sherlock let out a breath. "I'll take small cases; one that I can solve without leaving the flat." He was silent for a beat. "Maybe, you could come over some, and keep me company while John and Mary do, what ever they will be doing."

"That would be lovely," Molly said. "But I believe John may be spending more time with you, since he is angry at Mary."

"No, I think they'll work it out soon enough."

The day Sherlock was able to go back to Baker Street, John had to work. He asked Molly, who luckily had the day off of work, to watch him. Molly arrived that morning.

"Molly." Sherlock said when he opened the door.

Molly gave him a smile. "Hello Sherlock."

"Please," Sherlock stepped aside, and gestured towards the sitting room. "Come in."

Molly stepped in, taking off her coat and hanging it on the coat rack. "Sherlock," She said. "You should rest. How about I make you a cup of tea?"

"I've been resting for over a week, Molly," Sherlock said. "I'd prefer to not lay around until I am able to work again."

"Doctor's orders, Sherlock." She walked to the kitchen while Sherlock sighed and sat in his armchair. When Molly was done making the tea, she walked into the sitting room and handed Sherlock his cup, and then sat down with her own.

"So," She said after she was seated. "Welcome home. I assume it's good to be back."

"It really is." Sherlock said, sipping his tea.

Molly looked round the room. "It must be quiet. Without John, I mean."

"At times, yes." Sherlock said, looking into is cup as if he were looking for something.

"You know," Molly said. "You can have me anytime." She blushed. "No, no! I don't mean that! I just mean that, if you need – if you want someone to– never mind."

Sherlock smirked at her. "Yes."

"Sorry?" Molly said.

"Yes," Sherlock repeated. "You can come over more."

"Are you sure?" Molly asked. "I don't want to be a bother."

"You won't be." Sherlock said.

Molly smiled. "You know, Sherlock. I think sometimes, you don't need to be alone."

Sherlock looked up at her. "Who said I'm lonely?"

"Your eyes," Molly said. "I know that look, Sherlock."

Sherlock knew what she was talking about.

_"__You look sad," _She had said all those years ago. _"When you think he can't see you."_

He looked down again. "Anytime, Molly."

Molly looked up. "Hmm?"

"Come over anytime you like," Sherlock repeated. "I think I would enjoy that."

Molly smiled. "I think I would too."

Sherlock looked up, and gave her a smile.


	27. Chapter 27

Molly awoke to a hard knocking at her door. She got out of her bed, pulled on her dressing robes, and walked to her door, opening it to find the landlord, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing robes, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. Two suited men stood behind him, their hands behind their backs as they stared at Molly.

"Miss Hooper," The landlord said. "These men have been ringing the door bell for ten minutes."

"Sorry, Mr Carter," Molly said, running a hand through her messy hair. "I am a pretty deep sleeper sometimes."

"Clearly." He turned and walked down the stairs.

Molly looked the men up and down, frowning. "You two obviously work for Mycroft. What do you want?"

The tallest of the men spoke up. "Miss Hooper, you will want to get dressed."

Molly crossed her arms. "Why?"

"You have been requested."

"By whom?"

"Mr Holmes, of course."

"Why?"

"Miss Hooper," The shorter one said. "Dress yourself."

Molly stared at them silently for a moment before she let out a frustrated sigh, rolling her eyes as she turned on her heels and began walking back to her bedroom. "Mycroft realizes that he can phone me, doesn't he? It doesn't seem like that would be very complicated."

Molly dressed herself in simple trousers and a white jumper. She met the men by the door and they took her down to the black car that they arrived in. Molly took a seat on the grey leather seats in the back of the car. Next to her sat a woman in a solid black dress. She held a Blackberry about a foot from her face and she was texting at the speed of light.

"Um, hello." Molly said, looking over at the woman.

She looked up. "Hi." She returned to her phone, beginning to text once again.

"My name is Molly." Molly introduced.

"Yes," The woman's gaze never left her phone. "I know."

"What's your name?" Molly asked.

"Um … Anthea."

"That isn't your real name, is it?"

"Nope."

Molly looked around the car. "Where am I going?"

"You've been requested." Anthea told her.

"Yeah, I get that. Where am I going though?" Molly asked, and Anthea didn't respond. "There was no point in asking, was there?"

Anthea looked over at Molly, smiling. "Of course not." She returned to her phone and Molly opened her mouth to say something else, but decided against it. Instead, she gazed out of the tinted window until the car slowed to a stop in front of a large brick house.

The men opened the doors for Molly and Anthea. They led Molly to the door of the house. Mycroft was waiting in the vestibule, and with a nod of his head, the men and Anthea left.

"Miss Hooper." He greeted.

"Mycroft," Molly greeted. "Care to tell me exactly why I am here?"

"You have been requested." Mycroft said.

"Why does _everyone_ keep saying that?" Molly asked. "Who's requested me? You?"

"No," Mycroft said. "My brother has been asking to see you."

Molly frowned. "Sherlock? Why didn't he just come over, or text something or me? Is he alright?"

"I am afraid that he is not," Mycroft turned and began walking down a hallway. "Follow me, Miss Hooper."

Molly ran to catch up with him, and then followed him to a staircase. He began walking down the stairs and Molly followed behind.

"Mycroft," Molly said. "What's happened?"

Mycroft was silent until they reached the bottom of the stairs. "Sherlock has gotten himself into some trouble." He began leading her down another hallway.

"What did he do?" Molly asked as Mycroft stopped in front of a metal door at the end of the hallway.

Mycroft ignored her question. "He's been requesting to see you for three days now."

"Mycroft Holmes," Molly said. She wanted answers. "What did he do?"

He frowned, and was silent for a moment, before turning to look at her. "Sherlock Holmes is a murderer."

Molly felt her heart speed up at his words. Suddenly, everything was silence besides the Holmes' words repeating in her mind.

_Sherlock Holmes is a murderer. Sherlock is a murderer. A murderer._

Mycroft turned back and pushed a few buttons on a keypad that sat on the wall next to the door. He pressed enter, and then turned to Molly. "He's in there." With that, he walked off, back to the staircase and out of Molly's sight.

She took a moment, as if to prepare herself for her meeting with Sherlock. When she felt she was ready, she turned the doorknob and pushed it open.

The room had dark wooden floors, and dark green wallpaper. A single dark wood dresser sat in front of a queen-sized bed with white sheets on the right side of the room. Across the bed was a wooden door, which Molly guessed was a bathroom. Sherlock lay in the centre of the bed. He wore his belstaff coat over a white shirt and his normal suit jacket and trousers, he even still had his shoes on. His fingers were steepled in front of his mouth. Molly closed the door, and Sherlock opened his eyes, turning them towards her as she took a few steps into the room.

"Molly," He said. "You've made it. Finally."

Molly stopped walking a few feet from the bed.

"Come on," Sherlock took one hand away from his mouth and pat the spot next to him. "There's room for two."

Molly slowly walked to the bed, and sat down. She looked away from him as he closed his eyes once again, returning his hands to their steepled position in front of his mouth. They both fell into a few moments of silence, unsure of what to say.

"Who was it?" Molly stared at her feet, which hung off the edge of her bed.

"Magnusson." Sherlock said.

"Magnusson?"

"Yep." Sherlock said, a few moments of silence following.

"Are you okay?" Molly broke the silence.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed.

"Well, you _have_ just killed a man." Molly said.

"I have, haven't I?" Sherlock frowned. "He wasn't a very nice man though – a horrific one in fact."

"You're not okay." Molly said, looking round the room, avoiding looking at him.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and sat up. He stared at Molly for a few minutes, and she looked away from him. He slid himself until he was seated next to her, his feet resting on the floor. She turned her head more.

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock said, frowning. "Are you frightened of me?"

She said nothing. Her eyes closed, and she let out a choked breath.

"You are." He said after a moment. "Why?"

Molly looked at Sherlock. "I don't know."

He stared at her.

"Why did you choose me?" Molly asked. "You could have chosen John, or Mary, or Lestrade. Why me?"

Sherlock gave her a faint smile. "Because I am fond of you Molly Hooper. I enjoy your presence – I find it very calming – and right now, that is exactly what I need: To be calm."

Molly looked back down. "What is going to happen? What are they doing with you?"

"They are sending me to do some undercover work in Eastern Europe for six months." Sherlock looked down at his hands, which he had placed in his lap.

"And then – then you're coming back," Molly asked, looking back to Sherlock. "Right?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Mycroft suspects that the work will turn out to be fatal for me … my brother is never wrong."

Molly felt a tear escape her eye, and she wiped off of her cheek. "You're n–not coming back?"

He shook his head. "No."

Molly let out a choked sob as more tears escaped her eyes. She wiped them away furiously. She didn't want to lose herself in front of Sherlock, although she found it quite hard not to.

Sherlock turned to her, placing his hand on the side of her face, turning it to face him. He wiped a tear off of her cheek with his thumb, and stared at her. She leaned her head into his hand.

Without thinking, she closed her eyes, grabbed his coat lapels, and pulled him to her, claiming his lips to hers. He was stiff for a moment, caught of guard, but quickly moved his free hand to the small of her back, pulling her closer as he responded to her kiss. She moved her hands to his head, tangling them in his dark curls, and tried to pull him even closer. Sherlock seemed to get what she wanted, and he scooted closer to her, their legs side by side. They were as close as they could get, but it still didn't feel like enough.

The kiss was passionate, yet calming. Molly's mind cleared as she felt his lips against hers. Everything, the whole situation, was almost completely forgotten during her kiss with the detective.

It seemed to last an eternity, but after what was really a few minutes, Sherlock pulled back, leaning his forehead against Molly's. His breathing was heavy as he tried to regain a normal breathing pattern. Molly did the same, letting out choked sobs as her heart beat furiously in her chest.

"Sherlock," Molly said. "You can't let them take you away. Don't let them, please."

"I wish I could." He said, his own voice choked.

"What do we do, Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"Mycroft will send Anthea to get you in a few hours," Sherlock said. "We just wait until then, unless you wish to go back now."

Molly shook her head. "No."

Molly lowered her hands, and wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck. His hands moved to the small of her back, and they sat silently, waiting for the other to make the next move.

Sherlock eventually place a gentle kiss to Molly's forehead, and lay down on his side. Molly did as well, her back facing him as he wrapped his arms around her. She was still crying, and she saw no point in trying to stop herself.

Molly remembered the time Sherlock spent the night at her flat, and she woke up with his arms around her. She hadn't known what to do. She tried to untangle herself from him without waking him, and she did so successfully. This time, she didn't want to get away. She didn't have a fiancé to worry about, or a boyfriend. She didn't have to worry that things would be awkward between them. Sherlock was being sent away, and this, as much as she _tried_ not to think of it this way, was the last time she would see Sherlock Holmes.

She welcomed his arms around her, and closed her eyes as she rested her head against his upper arm. She smiled at his body against hers. She wished they would not have to part, she wished she could stop thinking about his fate after they part. Sherlock Holmes in exile.

Anthea opened the door three hours later. Three hours of almost no talking. What was there to say? Sherlock and Molly both sat up. Sherlock put his arms around her once again, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. Their lips met again, and Molly knew that she was crying again.

A minute later, foreheads against foreheads, their breaths mixing as they recovered from their kiss, Sherlock looked into her doe eyes. Molly pulled him close, her face hiding itself in his neck.

He hugged her tightly. "Remember me, Molly Hooper."

All she could do was nod as choked sobs escaped her throat and the suited men came into the room to rush her out. Even as she fought against their hold, and Sherlock returned to his former position, laying on the bed with his hands steepled in front of his mouth, Molly still felt the need to get back to him. Anthea closed the door, separating her from Sherlock. Her fighting ceased, and she walked back out to the car.

The whole trip back to her flat was completely silent. She stared out the window for the whole of it, and when the car slowed to a stop, she immediately opened the door and ran into her flat, locking the doors behind her as she fell to the floor, her back against the door and her face buried in her knees as she sobbed.

Toby ran to her, rubbing his body against her legs and she lift her head and ran her hand along his back. At least she had Toby. She relaxed her legs, letting them slide against the floor as Toby crawled into her lap. He lay down, soon falling asleep with the help of her gentle stokes, his purring helping to calm her racing mind.


	28. Chapter 28

Nothing – _nothing_ could distract Molly from Sherlock.

Since she arrived home, her mind raced with thoughts of Sherlock's fate. What kind of work would he be doing when they sent him into exile? And how would it be fatal to him? Would his end be painful? Would he suffer?

Molly couldn't bare the though of his suffering, although it was hard to get rid of. She had to pull herself together before work tomorrow. She couldn't tell anyone about Sherlock, what he did or how his situation is being handled. She was fine with that. Yes, she believed it would be helpful to talk to somebody about it, but saying out loud was too much. She burst in to tears as she attempted to tell Toby.

Molly stood up from the floor, having sat there for at least an hour. She held Toby to her chest, and walked over to the sofa, setting him down on it before going into the bathroom to take a shower. As the warm water fell on her face, she closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind. Trying not to think, of course, made her think even more. She asked herself the same questions about Sherlock, even though she knew they would not be answered.

When she finally pulled her self out of the shower after what seemed like hours and dressed her self, she lay down in her bed, pulling the warm covers over her. Maybe sleep would clear her mind. She couldn't cry over that man forever.

The next morning, Molly awoke late, and rushed to get to work on time, just barely making it. She went through her autopsies and eventually had to do some work in the lab. With all of the thoughts in her head, she felt slow, and she knew she would have to stay overtime to finish her work. She hated being this way, but she had too much on her mind to work at a normal pace.

After hours of working, Molly was getting ready to leave, so she cleaned up and started out of the lab, stopping at the doorway to the lab's small break room when the television began to flick on. The screen had static across it, like it was broken, but after a few seconds a picture began to show on it. The side of a man's face was barely visible through the static.

And then, the sound came on.

"Did you miss me?" It was high pitched.

She gasped and clenched her fists together as the picture cleared, and the man turned his head.

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

The man's jaw began to move up and down, yet not as if he were speaking. His lips trembled in the shape of a smile, and his eyes were bright. The audio played over and over.

The pitch changed, and went deep. "Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

Her hands went to her mouth as she felt the tears fall from her eye. He couldn't be back.

Sherlock, Mycroft, and a security man stood at the nose of the jet, watching a black car drive onto the airfield. It stopped away from them, and John and Mary stepped out. Mary walked to Sherlock, John following behind him, and pulled him into a hug.

"You _will_ look after him, won't you?" Sherlock said to Mary.

"Oh," Mary started as they kissed each other's cheeks. "Don't worry. I'll keep him in trouble."

He smiled as they stepped away from each other. "That's my girl." Sherlock turned to his brother. "Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?"

Mycroft looked at his brother, then back at the security guard, jerking his head. He, the man, and Mary walked along the side of the jet to the wing,.

John, nodding his head as he smiled sadly, stepped forward, closer to Sherlock. "So, here we are."

Sherlock looked around the airfield as he cleared his throat. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Sorry?" John said.

"That's the whole of it – if you're looking for baby names."

John chuckled. "No, we've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl."

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, okay."

"So," John said, looking down. "Have you been able to tell anyone?"

"Sorry?"

"Where you're going, and what happened, or is it just us."

Sherlock looked around. "Mycroft allowed me to invite one person to his home, when I was there."

"And who was that?" John asked.

"Molly Hooper came round, and we chatted. I told her." Sherlock said.

John raised an eyebrow. "Molly?"

"Yes."

John opened his mouth, as if to say something else, but stopped himself. He looked around, and after an awkward moment of silence, he said, "Yeah. Actually, I can't think of a single thing to say."

Sherlock looked down. "No, neither can I."

John takes a step closer. "The game is over."

"The game is never over, John," Sherlock said firmly, his eyes meeting John's. "But there may be some new players now. It's okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end."

"What's that?" John asked.

"It's story my brother told me when we were kids," Sherlock told him. "The East Wind – this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth…. That was generally me."

"Nice!" John said.

"He was a rubbish big brother." Sherlock said.

They smiled, and then John looked down, clearing his throat. "So what about you, then?" He lifted his head. "Where are you actually going now?"

"Oh some undercover work in Eastern Europe." Sherlock told him.

John asked, "For how long?"

Sherlock looked slightly above John as he answered. "Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."

"And then what?"

Sherlock looked down, then back up as he shrugged. "Who knows?"

John nods, and then looks round the airfield again. When he turns back, Sherlock is making eye contact.

Sherlock looks down, then his eyes travel around. "John, there's something I need to say … I meant to say it always, but I never have. Since it's unlikely we'll meet again I might as well say it now." Sherlock looked down, then met John's eyes. "Sherlock is actually a girls' name."

John turned, and giggled, then turned back to see Sherlock smiling. "It's not."

"It was worth a try."

"We're not naming our daughter after you."

"I think it could work." Sherlock said. After a moment, he takes off his right glove and sticks his hand out to John. "To the very best of times."

John hesitates, and then grabs his hand, shaking it. They stand there for a couple of seconds before Sherlock gives his hand one last pump, and then releases it. He turned, and began to walk away as he slid is glove back on his hand.

As Mary returned to John's side, holding onto his arm, the jet took off, and they looked after it. Mycroft walked back to his car and opened the door, stepping in as his mobile began to ring. He took it out, and looked at the caller ID: Greg Lestrade.

"Hello?" He answered.

"Mycroft," Lestrade said. "Something's happened."

"What is it?"

"I was in pub, and the telly went to static–"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Then have them call a technician, not me."

"Let me finish, would you! Once the static had cleared, a figure appeared on the screen. Apparently, he's on every screen in the country."

"Someone important, I assume," Mycroft interrupted. "Otherwise I will just hang up now. If this is so important, why didn't someone with higher power tell me?"

"Because this happened less then five minutes ago, and Sherlock wouldn't answer his phone. Listen to me, Mycroft…"

Mycroft listened, and heard himself gasp at what the detective told him. He opened the door to his car and stepped out, looking to John as he spoke. "But that is not possible. That is simply not possible."

John furrowed his brow as he walked towards Mycroft, Mary staying at his side.

"I will have to inform my brother," Mycroft said. "Goodbye."

"What's happened?" John asked.

"It looks as if someone has returned."

Sherlock stared out the window of the jet, and turned his head as a man walked into the room, holding out a phone to him.

"It's your brother." The man said.

Sherlock took it, and held it to his ear. "Mycroft?"

"Hello, little brother. How's the exile going?" Mycroft asked.

"I've only been gone four minutes!"

"Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson," Mycroft said. "As it turns out, you're needed."

"Oh for God's sake! Make up your mind!" Sherlock sighed, and looked out the window again. "Who needs me this time?"

Mycroft was silent for a moment, and then Sherlock heard a television being turned on, and he heard a distorted audio clip through the phone.

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

"England." Mycroft said.

Mary and John stood by the car again.

"But he's dead. I mean, you told me he was dead, Moriarty." Mary said.

"Absolutely," John said. "He blew his own brains out."

"So how _can_ he be back?"

John stared up at the sky. "Well if he _is_ back, he'd better wrap up warm … There's an East Wind coming."

Mary followed his gaze, and saw Sherlock's jet coming back.


	29. Chapter 29

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

Hours after the looped clip of Jim Moriarty was off telly, his voice still echoed in her mind. _Did you miss me? _She brought her legs up to her chest, and buried her face in her knees and began to sob. This was terrible. This was impossible. This was…happening.

This was happening. Sherlock Holmes has been exiled, and the consulting criminal was back.

_Who is going to save us?_ Molly thought. _John Watson? Mary Morstan? Greg Lestrade? Scotland Yard?_

No.

No one can save them. With Moriarty back, there is no way anyone is safe. What if he came after her? Would anyone even try to save her? Of course they wouldn't, who would even try? Who would dare risk their life for Molly Elizabeth Hooper? No one would.

Her cat, Toby rubbed the side of his face against my leg, and she lifted my head. Sherlock gave her the cat when it was just a kitten. Toby was only thing she had left of him. She pet his head, and gave him a small smile. He was nice company. After she broke it off with Tom, things were getting lonely at my flat. Sherlock was right. Caring was not an advantage.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He was the man she loved. She helped him fake his death. She helped save him, and he saved her. He's saved her loads of times–he's saved all of London. Now he needed saving. Who would save him this time? No one. No one could save him. Six months, he said. Six months of exile and his undercover work would prove fatal to him. And there was nothing anyone could do about it. Sherlock Holmes would be gone.

What was Molly to do now? Her believed to be dead, psychopathic, ex-boyfriend had returned to the grave and there was nothing anyone or she could do to stop him. What would he do? Who would he kill this time? How many would he kill this time? It was times like this that Molly wished she were smart. She wished she were a detective. She wished she were brilliant like Sherlock himself.

Molly stood up and walked to her bedroom, dressing in her pyjamas when she arrived. After taking a second to wipe the tears off of her cheeks, she crawled under the covers on her bed and pulled them over chest. Somehow, after about an hour of tossing and turning, she was able to fall asleep.

• • •

She awoke to a bump. Something was moved.

_It's probably just Toby._ Molly thought.

Then, she felt Toby, who had been lying at her feet.

She covered her mouth with her hand, muffling her gasp, and slid her legs out from under the covers and placed her feet silently on the floor. She stood, and started taking small, quiet steps towards her open bedroom door, pausing at her dresser. She spotted a curtain rod, which she had bough a few days earlier and meant to put up, but never got round to. She grabbed it, held it tightly, and started walking towards the door again.

Another bump.

Molly paused at doorway, and listened. She heard the kettle whistling, and then, after a moment, it stopped. She knew she hadn't left it on earlier. She gripped the rod tighter, like a baseball bat, and walked out of her bedroom. She took silent steps into the sitting room, looking first towards kitchen. Then, she turned her head to the sitting room, but before she could register who was blocking her view, two arms pulled her towards them. She screamed, and the arms immediately let go.

Molly pulled back the rod; her eyes close in fear, and prepared to swing.

She heard his voice. "Molly?"

Molly dropped the rod and opened her eyes. "Sherlock Holmes!" She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. "You scared the hell out of me!"

He wrapped his arm around her. "And you almost hit me with a curtain rod."

"Because you broke into my flat."

"No I didn't." Sherlock pulled away, and reached into the pocket of his Belstaff. He pulled out a silver key, and held it up. "I believe you gave me this."

Molly smiled. "I did, didn't I?" She hugged him again. "Wait, Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"As pleased as I am to see you, aren't you supposed to be in exile?"

"Haven't you seen what was on the telly?"

Molly nodded her head, and tightened her arms around Sherlock.

"Sometimes," Sherlock continued. "London needs to be saved."

• • •

Half an hour later, Sherlock and Molly sat side by side on the sofa. Their tea finished, and set empty on the coffee table. Molly leaned her head onto Sherlock's shoulder, and he stiffened for a moment, but soon relaxed.

"Are you back for good?" She asked.

"I do hope so." He said. "Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Are you afraid?"

Molly nodded. "Of course I am."

"You know that–" He took a second to think about what he was saying, and then continued, "You know that you are in danger, right?"

"Of course I do." Molly said.

"And you know that I _will_ stop Moriarty, right?"

Molly nodded, and grabbed Sherlock's hand. "Of course I do." She took her head off his shoulder, and looked him in the eye. "You're Sherlock Holmes. Of course you'll stop him."

"And you do realise that, because of our little friend returning, I've asked Mycroft to raise his security on you?"

Molly narrowed her eyes. "Security?"

Sherlock frowned. "Well you don't think that I wouldn't have him monitor your safety, do you?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "You're Sherlock Holmes. Of course _you_ would." Sherlock gave her a small smile, and she smiled back, returning her head to his shoulder.

Sherlock began to rub circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, and Molly began to relax. As the room became silent, Molly found herself drifting of to sleep again.

When Molly woke up, Sherlock was still next to her, except a blanket had been wrapped around her.

"Good morning." Sherlock said. "Sleep well?"

"As well as I could." Molly said, stretching her arms in front of her. "How did you sleep?"

"Hm?"

Molly frowned at him. "Sherlock, you did sleep, didn't you?"

He said nothing.

"Have you eaten?"

He said nothing.

Molly threw the blanket off of herself, and walked to the kitchen. "What's today?"

"January 2nd." Sherlock said.

"Well," Molly said as she checked the calendar in the kitchen, "luckily for you, I took an extra day last week, so I've got today off. How many pancakes?"

"One."

"Sherlock."

"Three."

Molly smiled, and began to make the pancakes.

• • •

Two hours later, Molly had forced Sherlock to lie in her bed, and at least attempt to achieve sleep. When he said he, couldn't, Molly crawled into bed with him, and propped herself up with her arm. He did the same, and they stared at each other.

"Why are you forcing me to sleep?" Sherlock asked.

"You need sleep."

"I'm fine."

Molly shook her head slowly. "You're not. Come on, Sherlock, just for an hour, at least."

He furrowed his brows. "What good would that do?"

"It will be rest, please Sherlock, you've obviously not slept in days. You're tired; I know you are. Just please, get some rest."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and lay his head on the pillow. Molly smiled, and turned over, laying her head on the pillow. Within minutes, Sherlock's arms were around her. Although she didn't sleep, she enjoyed the feeling of his arms around her, and the movements of his chest as his breathing slowed and he fell asleep. Molly was tempted to sleep, she was so tired, but she knew she couldn't mess up her sleep schedule, so she just lay there with Sherlock's arms wrapped around her, and thought.


	30. Chapter 30

After two hours, Molly got up and made herself soup, eating slowly on the sofa. When she finished, she cleaned up and grabbed her favourite Harry Potter book, _The Deathly Hallows_, off of her shelf and sat on the sofa again, opening it to the first page and beginning to read. Five chapters in, Molly heard footsteps and she looked up to see Sherlock taking slow steps into the sitting room.

Molly smiled. "Good afternoon, Sherlock. Feeling better rested?"

"I guess so." He said, and he sat on the sofa next to her.

Molly grabbed a kitten bookmark off of the coffee table and placed it in her book. "You slept for several hours."

"Did I?" Sherlock asked, and looked towards the clock above the door. "I have, haven't I?"

"Yes, in fact, I'm going to have to be going to sleep in a few hours." Molly said, "Are you going to be able to sleep tonight?"

Sherlock said, "I expect not."

"I think you will. If you've not slept in days, you are probably still tired." Molly said. "Promise me you'll at least try. Okay?"

"Okay."

Sherlock looked down at her lap where her book sat. "Read to me."

"Really?" Molly said.

"Yes," Sherlock said, "I'm bored."

Sherlock scooted closer to her, their legs side by side, and looked on with her as she opened up to chapter five.

"'Hagrid?'" Molly began.

Sherlock interrupted. "Excuse you."

Molly rolled her eyes. "You've never read Harry Potter, have you?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "I've always been too busy to read novels."

Molly closed the book again, and stood up. She placed it on her bookshelf and grabbed _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_, the first Harry Potter book. When she sat on the sofa again, she opened the book to chapter one.

"'Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.'" Molly began. She read to Sherlock, and he listened. Occasionally, he asked questions like: "What the hell is a muggle?" and "How can glass vanish? And how can children talk to snakes?" to which Molly would respond, "Just wait. It will be explained, Sherlock."

Sherlock eventually became patient, and if Molly stopped reading for even a second, he would tell her to keep reading. After finishing chapter 6, Molly looked around at the clock above the door.

"Sherlock," she said, "as much as I would love to continue reading to you, I should really go to bed. I've got work tomorrow."

"Oh," Sherlock said, "Yeah, that's fine."

"Are you going to go back to Baker Street or…" Molly trailed off.

"It's a bit late," Sherlock said. "I'll just stay here."

"Okay," Molly said. "Okay. Um, well, I'll just go get dressed then."

"Yeah," Sherlock said. "Me too."

Molly cocked her head. "Have you got clothes?"

"When Janine was staying at my flat," Sherlock explained. "I hid clothes here."

"And why did I never notice?" Molly asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "They were in your side of the dresser; in the empty drawer."

"That explains it." Molly laughed. She stood up, grabbed clothes from her bedroom, and began to walk to the bathroom, where she quickly showered, blow dried her hair, and changed into her pyjamas. When she exited the bathroom and walked into her bedroom, Sherlock was already in bed, on the side where Tom used to sleep – when he actually slept at Molly's flat.

Molly crawled into bed beside them, and he looked over at her.

"What?" She said, smiling.

He smiled. "Nothing."

"Well then," Molly said as she turned the light off and lay down on her left side, "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Molly felt the bed move as Sherlock lay down on his side, he wrapped his arms around her again, and Molly shivered as a breeze came through the room.

"Molly." Sherlock said.

"Yes?"

"You've left your window open."

"Oh, really? I hadn't noticed." Molly rolled her eyes.

"Want me to shut it?"

Molly said, "No, it's fine." She reached down the bed and pulled up the duvet.

"But if someone sneaks in here and murders you, I will kill them myself." Sherlock said, tightening his arms around Molly slightly.

_I don't doubt it._ Molly though, but instead she said: "Yeah, okay."

"Goodnight, Molly." Sherlock pressed a light kiss to the back of Molly's head.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Blushing, aren't you?" Sherlock said.

Molly felt her cheeks grow hotter. "Maybe."

• • •

Molly awoke to an empty bed, and she sat up, looking around the room. Her pyjama shorts rested slightly under her waist, so she must have had a restless night, though she couldn't remember if she'd had a nightmare. She stood up and walked into the sitting room; empty. She saw a folded piece of paper on the coffee table and went over to it, picking it up and reading it.

_Molly,_

_ I hope you've slept well. I've gone back to Baker Street. I'll try to stop by tonight or tomorrow. _

_ By the way, I've taken **The Philosopher's Stone**; hope you don't mind._

_ –Sherlock_

Molly smiled, and looked up to the clock: 5:45. She didn't have to be at work until 9:00. How had she managed to wake up _this_ early? Molly made herself coffee, and then drank it while she watched the news.

_"…has been believed to be dead for three years. Police say there are no leads as to where James Moriarty is, if he is alive, but we are assured that they are on the case."_

Molly switched off the telly, and sighed. She washed her now empty mug, and walked back to her bedroom. She opened the top drawer of her dresser, and reached in to pick up a shirt, but stopped when she say an envelope addressed to her. It wasn't Sherlock's handwriting; she didn't recognize it. She opened the envelope and took out a piece of notebook paper. The same handwriting was on it. It read:

_Molly dear,_

_ You _really_ shouldn't leave your window open at night. All sorts of criminals could sneak in and do all sorts of things to you._

_ –M._

Molly furrowed her brows, and looked back into the envelope. There were two photographs in it. She slid them out, and gasped.

• • •

When Sherlock arrived at Baker Street, John was already there. "John," he said as he entered the flat, "It's 5:00, what are you doing here so early?"

"Mary and I spent the night." He said, "We stopped by three times yesterday, and you weren't here. Were you at Mycroft's?"

"Oh, um, yeah, I was at Mycroft's." Sherlock lied. He cleared his throat. "We needed to discuss our current situation."

"And?" John said.

"I will continue to reside in Baker Street, and I will be working the Moriarty case again." Sherlock said.

"Okay." John looked at Sherlock's arms, furrowing his brows. "What's that, then?"

"What?" Sherlock asked.

John pointed to where Sherlock held something between his arm and his side. "That…the thing that you're holding."

Sherlock looked down. "Oh, that's a book."

"A book?"

"Yes, didn't you hear me?"

"Like, something for a case?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I think it's called a fictional book."

John walked closer, and Sherlock furrowed his brows as John stood a foot away from him. In one quick movement, John pulled the book out from between Sherlock's arm and side and turned, running it to the sofa. Sherlock didn't move for a second, but then took after him.

"_Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_?" John said. "Sherlock…are you _actually_ reading for fun?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, snatching it back from him. "And I would prefer if you didn't mess it up. It isn't mine, and I would like to return it in the condition it came."

"Whose book is it, then?"

"Molly's."

"Sherlock," John said, "you didn't just take it from her, did you?"

Sherlock waited a moment before replying. "I left her a note."

"Wait," John said, "How did you get into Molly's flat?"

"I've got a key," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. "You didn't think I would just break into her flat, did you?"

"No, of course not." John smiled. "You have a key?"

"Yes. She gave it to me three years ago."

"That's fantastic!"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. "Okay! Well, if we're done now, I'm going to finish this." He motioned to the book, and then threw himself onto the couch.

"Okay," John said, "I'm going back to bed." John walked back to his bedroom, where Mary lay asleep.

Thirty minutes later, John interrupted Sherlock's reading.

"Are you going to get that?" He asked.

Sherlock looked up from the book. "Sorry?"

"Never mind." He walked to the door and opened it. "Good morning, Mrs Hudson."

"Good morning John!" Mrs Hudson said cheerfully. "Sorry, I left my key downstairs. Somebody left this for you." She handed him an envelope, and he studied the handwriting on the front. He didn't recognize it.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." John said.

"No problem, dear." She smiled, and then turned around, closing the door as she began to walk downstairs.

John opened the envelope, and pulled out a sheet of notebook paper, which had the same handwriting on it.

It read:

_John,_

_ I hope you enjoy the photographs inside. Make sure you share them with Sherlock, I'm sure he'll get a real kick out of them._

_ –M._

John looked into the envelope again, and pulled out two photographs. His jaw dropped. "Um, Sherlock?"

"Busy." Sherlock said.

"No, Sherlock, I think you might want to see this actually."

"John, I'm busy," Sherlock snapped. "Can't you wait until I finish this chapter?"

John raised his voice, "Are you sleeping with Molly Hooper?" John heard the book drop, and then footsteps.

"What?" Sherlock asked, standing to feet away from John.

"It's a simple question Sherlock," John shook his head. "Are you?"

"I don't understand." Sherlock said.

"Jesus, Sherlock." He held out the photographs, and Sherlock took them, his face fixed in a hard expression as he saw them.

His arms around her, and the duvet pulled up to their chins. They were asleep, and both of the photographs were almost the same, though in one of them, Sherlock and Molly were closer together. Sherlock furrowed his brows, and John covered his face with his hand.

"Sherlock," John said. "If you are, I'm happy for you…I guess, but I don't want bloody photographs sent to me."

"These were taken last night." Sherlock said.

"Well, congratulations. Jesus, Sherlock." John said, shaking his head. "So, you are then?"

"No, that's not important. Her window was open…" Sherlock trailed off.

"You know what?" John said, "That's your business, not mine. I don't even want to know anymore."

Sherlock looked up, his eyes wide. "John."

"Sherlock, it's really not that big of a deal, just please don't send me photographs."

Sherlock's mobile rang, and he took it out of his pocket. He didn't need to look at the ID to know who it was.

"Molly…." He said. "We weren't alone last night."


	31. Chapter 31

Molly paced in front of her bed, still in her pyjamas. She stared down at the photographs in her hand. Who could have taken this photographs, and why? Was it just to scare her? Were the photographs going to be used for black mail?

_I have to call Sherlock._ She thought, grabbing her mobile off of her dresser and punching Sherlock's number in. He answered after the first ring.

"Molly. We weren't alone last night."

"I noticed," Molly said. "Sherlock, there was an envelope on my dresser, and inside was a note and two photographs."

"You don't have to work for two hours," Sherlock said, "Bring what you found to Baker Street and we can compare the photographs to the ones that John received."

"John got the photos too?" Molly asked, but Sherlock had already hung up. She put the photographs and the note back into the envelope, and then got dressed.

• • •

Sherlock paced around the sitting room. John kept attempting to ask questions, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He was thinking; he had to think. The front door opening disrupted his thoughts. He stopped pacing and looked up at Molly, who stood in the doorway.

She took a few steps in a closed the door behind her. "Sherlock."

"Molly." Sherlock said.

Molly was silent for a moment, biting her lip, then said, "Why the hell would someone take a picture of us?"

"I don't know." Sherlock said, continuing to pace.

Sherlock shrugged.

"I mean," Molly said, looking down at the envelope, "It's not like we were doing anything. We were just sleeping. That's what people do when they are tired. You can't blackmail with sleeping."

"Wait," John said, "you two _aren't_ sleeping together, then? And by that I mean–"

"Yes – I mean yes we aren't. We aren't sl–…we're not having…Um…" Molly's cheeks grew warm and turned crimson.

"Sorry," John apologised. "Your business not mine."

"But, we're not–"

"Doesn't matter, you two." Sherlock said. "The real question is _who_ would take photographs of us?"

John said, "The note said it was from 'M'. Moriarty, then?" Molly let out a faint gasp, but Sherlock just shook his head.

"Moriarty would have just written his name," Sherlock said. "He has no reason to keep his identity from us. Plus, it's not his style."

"Style?" John questioned.

"Moriarty," Sherlock said, "isn't the kind of criminal who would crawl in through a women's bedroom window and take photographs of her sleeping with a male. Even if he wanted the photographs for some reason, he wouldn't do it himself. He would let someone else do it for him."

"So, a partner then." John nodded his head understandingly.

"Exactly."

"But who is that supposed to be?" Molly asked. "Who would do that for Moriarty? _Why_ would who do that for Moriarty? What's the point?"

"Molly, your letter. Let me see it." Molly handed Sherlock the envelope, and he slid out the lines paper and read the writing on it. "You can tell it's not Moriarty. Moriarty is left handed, so if he had written this, the writing would be smudge from where his hand rubbed across the ink. The paper is clear, so whoever wrote this was right handed."

"So, who would 'M' be?" John asked. "Do we know anyone in the network with a name that stars with 'M'?"

"No," Sherlock said, his hands steepled in front of his mouth, the letter between them, as he began pacing faster. "It's not his first name, it's his last name."

"His?"

"Yes, look at the writing," Sherlock said. "That's a male's handwriting, obviously."

"Obviously," John said, "yeah, right."

"So this partner of Moriarty's," Molly said. "His surname begins with an 'M'?"

"Yes." Sherlock said.

Molly thought for a moment, and then said, "Sebastian Moran."

Sherlock stopped pacing, and turned to look at her. "What did you say?"

"Sebastian Moran." Molly repeated. "When Jim and I dated, he was always talking about Sebastian Moran. He said that they were best friends as teenagers, but he ended up moving away. Before I broke it off with Jim, he said that Sebastian was coming back to London for him."

"Sebastian Moran," John looked to Sherlock. "He was the with the tube train bomb, yeah?"

Sherlock said, "Yes. He should have been under arrest unless…."

John and Molly stared at him for a moment.

"Yes?" Molly said.

"Unless he was proven innocent." Sherlock said.

"Wouldn't we know if he was?" John asked.

"Not necessarily," Sherlock said. "They didn't put the story on the news; too afraid that it would frighten the public or something."

"How can you be proven innocent for terrorism?" Molly asked, her brows furrowed in confusion.

"How can you be proven innocent for breaking into the Tower of London, the Bank of England, and Pentonville Prison in one day?"

"Oh…" John and Molly said together.

"Moriarty helped." John said.

"Moriarty had a way to make sure he was proven innocent," Sherlock said. "He must have helped Moran. Molly."

"What?"

"Lock your windows." Sherlock said, "I'll be staying with you tonight, get a bag packed and ready. You're coming to Baker Street for a week starting tomorrow. Then, your flat for another week. If we need to, we'll even switch you to John and Mary's flat. We need to switch where you live often, and you need someone staying with you. You're in danger, Molly."

Molly only nodded her head. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut him off.

"You can stay here until you need to leave for work." Sherlock said. "I expect your lab coat is in your bag?"

Molly nodded. "Yes."

"John," Sherlock said. "Go back to bed. I'll take it from here. Have a seat Miss Hooper."

John stared as Sherlock and Molly sat side by side on the sofa, the shook his head and walked back to his old bedroom.

• • •

"'Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Does that help?'" Sherlock read from chapter twelve of _The Philosopher's Stone_.

Molly lean her head on Sherlock's shoulder, following along as he read. She listened to his words and couldn't help but get lost in his voice. When he stopped reading, she only stared at him.

"Molly?" Sherlock said.

"Hm?" She hummed.

"As much as I'd love to continue," He said, "I don't want you to be late for work…. Molly. You _do_ need to go to work…. Molly?"

"Shut up." Molly said, and she pressed her lips against his.

This time, he didn't hesitate before returning the kiss, and he brought one hand to the back of her head and the other to the small of her back. She rested a hand on his jawline and deepened the kiss, and he seemed to be doing the same.

John watched them from the bathroom door, cracked open just enough to where he could barely see them. John knew something was going on between the too, and he hated that he had to spy on them to find out what. Yes, Molly had her head on Sherlock's shoulder, but all that was happening was a read along. Then, Sherlock stopped reading, and started speaking to Molly.

"As much as I'd love to continue, I don't want you to be late for work…. Molly. You do need to go to work…. Molly?"

"Shut up." She said.

John knew a gasp escaped him when Molly pressed her lips to Sherlock's, but they didn't seem to hear him. John covered his mouth with his hand and watched, in absolute shock. When their lips didn't leave each other's, John quietly opened the door and took silent steps to his bedroom.

Mary was awake. "Good morning, John!"

John placed a finger to his lips. "Shh."

"What?" Mary asked, frowning.

"Sherlock and Molly are snogging!" John whispered.

Mary smiled brightly and whispered back. "They're what?"

"On the couch, right now."

"Are you serious?" Her smile grew bigger when John nodded excitedly.

"Come on," John said. "Let's listen out. Maybe they'll actually stop snogging and talk."

Mary slid her legs out from under the covers and placed her feet on the floor, pushing herself up, her hand on her large belly.

"John! Wait, John–John." She said, taking slow steps towards him.

"What?"

"Isn't it wrong to spy on your best friend?" Mary asked, her smile gone and her head cocked to the side.

John shrugged. "Probably."

Mary grinned, and John grinned back. Mary walked to the door and she and John pressed their ears to it, listening.

Molly didn't want the kiss to end, but Sherlock right. She had to go to work. When at last she pulled away, she rested her forehead against his, and they both regained their breath.

"If only work could wait." Molly said.

Sherlock chuckled. "If only."

Molly pulled back and smiled at Sherlock. "I really should go, though."

Sherlock nodded.

They both stood and Molly grabbed her purse off of the coffee table and slung it over her shoulder. "See you tonight, Sherlock."

"Remember," Sherlock said. "Go straight to your flat. I'll already be there, okay?"

Molly nodded and smiled, turning away and walking towards the door of the flat. Sherlock rushed after her, and held the door open. Molly's smile widened, and she stepped out. Sherlock smiled after her, and closed the door when Molly got to the bottom of the stairs.

"She must have left," John whispered. "I don't hear anything."

"Me neither." Mary whispered back, "Wait. Shut up. Is that…?"

"Footsteps." John confirmed.

"Yes," Sherlock's voice came through the door. "Did you enjoy that?"

"Um…" John said, holding in a laugh.

Mary didn't even try. She giggled, and then John lost it.

On the other side of the door, Sherlock was smiling.

"You shouldn't spy on your friends, Mr and Mrs Watson." Sherlock said. "It's not very polite."

"Screw being polite." Mary laughed.

• • •

When Molly arrived at her flat that night, Sherlock was waiting at the door. She greeted him, and he led her inside, closing and locking the door behind him. Sherlock walked around her flat, checking to make sure that all of the windows were closed and secure while Molly ate some Chinese take out Sherlock had brought. When he finished checking, he ate with her, and Sherlock asked about work. She told him about some of the cadavers she autopsied.

"Two came in," Molly said, "Bullet through their brains. They were married." Molly shook her head. "I wondered why they both decided to kill themselves. One of them was sick; leukaemia. He wasn't going to live long."

Sherlock said, "People will do all kinds of things out of sentiment."

"Maybe they were afraid of living in a world without each other." Molly was silent as she ate, and Sherlock just looked at her. After a few minutes, Molly said, "My dad had leukaemia. He suffered for three years. I was fourteen."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said.

"He was always cheerful," Molly continued. "Even in his last year, he kept smiling. Sometimes, though, he looked side, and I wished more than anything that I could help him."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said again, and without thinking, he took her hand in his. She just nodded.

That night, as Sherlock lay in bed with his arms wrapped around Molly yet again, he thought about what Molly had told him about the two cadavers. Married; both committed suicide. He didn't understand why two people would do that. If he were sick, he would die fighting to get better. If he loved someone who was sick, he would tell her tale after death. Even if he didn't want to live without her, he would keep on.

Why was he thinking about this?

"Sherlock?" Molly said.

"Hm?"

"What are you think about?"

"I don't really know." Sherlock said, "I can't picture it clearly."

"Picture what?" Molly asked.

"This world without the few people I have sentimental affection for." Sherlock said.

"Because what kind of world would that be?" Molly said.

Sherlock nuzzled his head against Molly's neck, and she leaned hers against it.

"Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, Molly Hooper."


End file.
